


A Match of My Own

by beetle



Series: Mates and Matches [1]
Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha Peter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Infertility, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Wade, Past Nathan Summers/Wade Wilson, Past-Cablepool, Possessive Peter, Scarred Wade, Smut, Spideypool - Freeform, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-30 16:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8540044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Wade Wilson is a dishonorably discharged vet from Canada, making a new life for himself in New York City after going into heat cost him his military career. This time, three years later, when he goes into heat, he gets proactive about it and turns to the only matchmaking service he can sort-of afford, in the hopes of finding a heat-mate to get him through the worst of his season. Because with a mug like his, that’s all he can hope to get, right? And certainly not a permanent mate?





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pyroperception](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyroperception/gifts), [badskippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: AU. No powers. A/B/O. White and Yellow will only appear sporadically (you’ll see what I mean). Dom/sub. Knotting, mating, breeding, eventual M-preg.
> 
> Dedicated to Badskippy for talking me off my bell-tower. And to Pyroperception for suggesting I create a project that takes a while to complete. I'm still here, guys.

 

 

 

[White]

{Yellow}

 

“Mr. Wade Wilson?”

 

Wade looked up from his intent study of the tips of his dusty, scuffed boots and into the mild, reassuring dark eyes of the receptionist. She nodded at the closed doors to the conference room wherein Wade would be meeting for the first and final time with his matchmaker and the first and hopefully _not_ final time with . . . his Alpha.

 

At that thought, a faint, dull flare of heat worked its way through Wade’s body, originating and terminating—well, simmering—in his groin and ass. He could feel the beginnings of not only another erection that he couldn’t do fuck-all about without an Alpha’s knot or at least their pheromones, but he could also feel, with more than slight mortification, his body doing its damnedest to produce slick, despite the _powerful_ suppressors Wade had been on for weeks. . . .

 

. . . and for at least a month longer than was, technically, safe. But Wade could only hope it was better, in the end, than his past three heats had been: stumbling, near crazed and febrile, to Nate’s, to beg for the Alpha’s touch, if not his knot.

 

And how Nate had _loved_ to make Wade _beg_. . . .

 

Anything, even the likely infertility Wade was staring down the barrel of—thanks not only to the past nine weeks on emergency heat-suppressors not meant to be taken for more than a month, but for _months at a time every year he'd been in the military_ —was better than crawling back to Nate. And anyway, it wasn’t as if there were millions of Alphas just hanging around waiting to mate and breed _Wade’s_ scarred, ugly ass.

 

Levering himself out of the comfortable chair—the only one that’d been free when he’d arrived an hour ago, and now one of the few still tenanted . . . at least as of a few moments before his name had been called—Wade ran a hand through his chin-length, russet hair, and then down the clean, grey t-shirt that stretched across his chest and the form-fitting blue jeans he’d spent probably too much on. Over the t-shirt, he wore his old army jacket, despite having been told by members of his fire-team and his government that he’d lost that privilege, or hadn’t ever had it in the first place, considering how hard he’d worked to defraud the world about his true gender.

 

After ten years of illegal scent suppressors, emergency heat-suppressors/blockers, and hormones to make him smell like a beta, one little slip (during the coinciding apex of an initially suppressed heat and Wade catching a literal _faceful_ of shrapnel), and Wade’d shortly found himself drummed out of the military he’d served for eleven years. Sans pension and any kind of letters of recommendation. And with no skills that weren’t related to killing or violence, not that anyone’d trust a lying omega who’d scammed his way into the army, to even work mall security. And the few places in his hometown of Regina that’d been inclined to hire a dishonorably discharged army-rat had been put off by the fact that Wade was . . . a fertile omega.

 

After all, sooner or later—even an omega as messed-up about the face as Wade—would find an Alpha to mate and breed him, and _then_ where would Wade’s potential boss be? Out a worker, that’s where. And Wade’d (supposedly) be happy at home, barefoot and pregnant, and playing mommy to a bunch of sniveling little brats.

 

As he strode to the reception desk, Wade grimly tamped down these thoughts. This was neither the time nor the place.

 

The receptionist was a pretty, young beta, who probably couldn’t smell his nervousness and dismay—his misery—but she probably could, after who knew how long working at this place, pick up on it.

 

Her reassuring smile widened and her cocoa-brown eyes sparkled up at him. She didn’t and hadn’t once flinched at his scarred face.

 

“He’s ready for you, now, Mr. Wilson. You can go right in,” she said in a bright, brassy voice that still managed to be calm and caring. Wade smiled—some reward for her kindness . . . _his_ fugly grimace of a smile—at her and saluted.

 

“Thanks, ma’am. Uh . . . _Mary Jane_ ,” Wade said, glancing at her nametag. “For your kindness.”

 

That warm, friendly smile widened and Mary Jane waved one slim, fuschia-nailed hand dismissively. “Aw, I’m a _horrid bitch_ , usually. But you seem like a kindred spirit, so, you get the _nice_ side of MJ Stacy,” she said, snorting and rolling her eyes. “Really, though. Don’t be nervous. Or maybe try and be _less_ nervous? He’ll take good care of you, I promise. He’s a past-master at matchmaking. Got it down to a science. That’s why we keep him here . . . well, that and his cute ass,” Mary Jane— _MJ_ —said, winking and flipping her red hair, then standing slightly. Wade’s eyes widened as he noticed she was rather hugely pregnant. They both winced as she leaned across the reception counter. “Your destiny awaits within, Mr. Wilson.” She pointed at the double doors leading into a small conference room.

 

Wade nodded once. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

 

Rolling her pretty, dark eyes, MJ waved him away again. “ _Ma’am_ , he says! Ugh, as if I didn’t feel old enough, bein’ Sadie-Sadie-married-lady and about to single-handedly over-populate the planet! Go on, in ya go! And _good luck_ , Mr. Wilson!”

 

Wade chuckled. “It’s just _Wade_ , ma’am . . . uh, MJ,” he amended when she quirked a cinammon-colored eyebrow. “And again . . . thanks.”

 

With another salute, Wade was turning to the double doors where his, _ahem_ , destiny, waited.

 

#

 

“Uh . . . knock-knock?”

 

Wade peered around the door on which he’d wrapped his scarred knuckles. In the small conference room was a round, medium-sized table that may have been mahogany, with coffee and hot water urns and various biscotti and cookies, and surrounded by seven chairs like the ones in the waiting room. The floor was carpeted in unassuming heather-grey, the art on the walls vaguely Deco. The room itself boasted no windows, but there was a large monitor bolted to the back wall, as well as a projector in the center of the table.

 

And, off in one corner to the right of the monitor, sitting at a small desk and tapping away at a sleek laptop, was a kid wearing huge, expensive-looking red headphones, jammed over his spiky dark hair, nodding his head to music that Wade couldn’t hear. He seemed mono-focused on whatever was going on on his laptop, so Wade opened his mouth to speak a little louder . . . but then the kid raised his right hand, one long, blunt index finger held up in a halting gesture.

 

“Be with ya in a minute. Just getting some last-minute stuff straightened out. No rest for the wicked, amirite?” he asked rhetorically in a low, pleasant tenor quite unlike Wade’s own gravelly, ruined baritone.

 

“Uh . . . right?”

 

“C’mon in and pop a squat anywhere.” That hand, long and strong-looking, came up again to wave at the room in general. Wade hesitated then stepped into the room fully, shutting the door behind him. “There may be a bit of a wait, since your potential Alpha is running a little behind—something about car trouble—but you might as well make yourself comfortable. There’s, uh, tea, coffee, what-not on the table. Help yourself. . . .”

 

“Thanks, guy,” Wade said, nodding, though the kid’d already gone back to his speedy typing and was frowning down at the screen ferociously.

 

“Fucking _algorithms_ , man,” the kid muttered to himself, biting at his left index fingernail for a few moments before resuming his feverish typing again. “Gwennie _would_ take a day off today. And who’s left cleaning up this shit? Me. As always.”

 

Smiling a little—tech-support was the same _everywhere_ , apparently, which was to say disgruntled, short-staffed, and underappreciated—Wade poured himself a cup of coffee (which smelled heavenly, and better than the stuff he could afford) with lots of French vanilla creamer and sugar.

 

It was as heavenly as it smelled. Not that Wade could smell much, thanks to the suppressors. At the moment, even a beta’s sense of smell was probably slightly better than his. Though, if not for the damn suppressors, considering that Wade was in heat, he’d be able to smell the color _green_ , never mind coffee, tea, and other omegas and Alphas.

 

Sitting himself in a chair facing away from a particularly uninteresting Art Deco painting, but not with his back to the room’s only other occupant, Wade sighed, leaning back a little. His body had calmed down on trying to make slick—though he was still half-hard, and always was, these days—but Wade’d left his tiny, shitty apartment wearing a slick-napkin down the back of his boxers, just in case. Being embarrassed like this once—and tossed off his shit construction job in Newark—had been enough for one lifetime.

 

“Fuck this,” the tech-support kid in the corner finally muttered, shoving off his headphones, from which tinny, awful noise could be heard to emerge. It sounded like some sort of speed-metal. The techie stood up suddenly—he was a lanky, lean five-eleven or so, and wearing a hideous, blue-green paisley shirt and tan suede vest over rumpled khakis—and shut his laptop with a definitive click, before turning to face Wade with a quirky, friendly smile that froze as he got a good look at Wade.

 

“Uh,” he said, his dark, dark eyes skating over Wade’s slouched-back figure, almost palpably tracing with his eyes Wade’s long, broad form, before landing on his face again. Wade’s lips curved in a wry, bitter grimace-grin as the techie swallowed and his smile started to look natural again. “Sorry, uh . . . it’s just that, uh . . . _wow_.”

 

“Yeah, I know. How does _this much handsome_ get through a day without bein’ mobbed, amirite?” Snorting, Wade took another sip of his coffee. “Just kiddin’, guy.”

 

“Actually, you’re, uh, kinda reading my mind, and— _wow_ , um . . . I’m _so_ sorry. I’m being _really_ rude and unprofessional, right now. Sorry.” The kid’s square, boyish face turned a blotchy red, but he continued to smile. He approached the table, one long hand held out for shaking. “It’s just that—well, I’ve seen your photo and your questionnaire videos and they . . . they really don’t do you justice, do they?”

 

Wade’s eyes narrowed and his own face turned red with anger. “Look, I get it, okay? I’m an uglier-than-advertised, broke as shit omega, and kinda at your boss’s mercy, so I maybe don’t get a say in how you guys treat me. But _Jesus_ , man, you’re really bein’ a _dick_ for no reason.”

 

The techie-kid blinked. “I—treat you? I’m not—I mean. What?” Blinking, he shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his spidery-long fingers. “Okay, lemme start over, ‘cause I think I’ve put my foot so far down my throat I can taste the back of my knee. Uh—” the techie-kid made a weird, waggly-eyebrowed face. “Though it’s still pretty unprofessional of me to say so, I don’t think you’re ugly at all, Mr. Wilson. I think you’re . . . _wow_.” Another once-over that ended at Wade’s face with a wide-eyed blink. “You’re ridiculously attractive in your photos and vids, but in person, you’re . . . _breath-takingly_ gorgeous. Like . . . full-on _stunning_. _Magnetic_. And your scent is . . . okay, not even gonna _go there_ , because that’s a sexual harassment lawsuit just _waiting_ to happen. Anyway, if I managed, in my clumsy, gobstruck way to make you feel anything other than comfortable, please believe that was _not_ my intention. Not at all.”

 

Wade’s own eyes widened and he nearly dropped his coffee because . . . _what_?

 

“ _What_?” Wade demanded out loud, face scrunched up. Techie-kid grinned and shrugged, holding out his hand again, leaning closer so Wade could take it. As he did—reluctantly, warily, only to have his hand neatly engulfed in the kid’s dry, callused mitt—Wade felt a static jolt that made him shudder. And he thought he caught a hint of something strong, musky, and enticingly masculine . . . like juniper and pine and . . . _ozone_?

 

Whatever it was, Wade’s half a hard-on edged toward three-quarters hard and a warm, wet trickle of slick began to leak out of him with surprising speed and ease . . . like maybe the suppressors were wearing off or his system had grown resistant to them. Or. . . .

 

{Oh, fuck,} the Yellow Voice whispered, something that was simultaneously super-obvious and total understatement. Wade shifted in his chair, resisting the warring instincts to both cross and spread his legs, and tuck his head down or bare his throat.

 

And he couldn’t look away from Techie’s dark, playful, but intensely appreciative eyes.

 

“Uh. . . .” Wade breathed, putting his coffee down before he really _did_ drop it. His hand shook, anyway, and he sloshed some on his thumb and the table, only barely noticing, despite the White Voice tsking like an offended school-marm. Most of Wade’s attention was taken by Techie’s hungry gaze, overwhelming scent, and warm, somehow reassuring touch.

 

“Wow, Mr. Wilson . . . _you are_. . . .” Techie began, his dark, thick brows drawing together almost into one Frida Kahlo-esque unibrow of consternation. Then he shook his head and let out a breath before composing himself once more, and with apparent effort. “Mr. Wilson—”

 

“ _Wade_ ,” Wade automatically said, breathless and soft. “ _Mr. Wilson’s_ still back in Saskatchewan, probably beatin’ the shit outta _Mrs. Wilson_. I’m just _Wade_. . . .”

 

“Wade,” Techie murmured wonderingly, smiling a little again when Wade shivered. Techie’s dark eyes flashed as he leaned closer to Wade, who was already surrounded by and practically _drowning_ in that oh-so-masculine, juniper-pine-ozone, ridiculously _Alpha_ scent.

 

Techie shook his head again, as if trying to wake himself up and smiled a limp, professional sort of smile that did nothing to leaven the intensity of his eyes or scent. Or to quash Wade’s hard-on or the amount of slick his body was pumping out.

 

[ _Control yourself_. You’re mere _seconds_ away from dropping to your hands and knees, and presenting to this kid. Where’s your dignity?] the White Voice demanded. The Yellow one snorted.

 

{ _What_ dignity, dude-bro?}

 

 _I hate you both_ , Wade thought distractedly at his ever-helpful Voices, licking his suddenly dry lips. And he totally wasn’t imagining the way Techie’s eyes flicked down to his mouth for a long moment, lingering there thoughtfully, before meeting Wade’s eyes again.

 

They both blinked at the same moment, then let go of each other’s hands quickly. Wade could, however, still feel the tingly, electric heat of the other man’s touch and had to fight not to look and see if his hand was somehow crawling with static electricity.

 

“Okay! Let’s start over, shall we? Pretend I wasn’t just _completely_ stumbling and falling all over myself because you’re so . . . incredibly attractive?” Techie nodded and put on his most serious face, though his nostrils were twitching and flaring, and he was leaning _well_ into Wade’s personal space. Not that Wade—who blinked again, up into those dark, intense eyes set in their cute, square-jawed face—minded remotely. “Hi, Wade. I’m Dr. Peter Parker and I’m your matchmaker.”

 

TBC


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade and Dr. Parker get to know each other . . . perhaps a bit better than either expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. No powers. A/B/O. White and Yellow will only appear sporadically (you’ll see what I mean). Knotting, mating, breeding, eventual M-preg. Also, I'll be answering comments on the previous chapter later tonight. Thank you all SO MUCH for reading, enjoying, and commenting <3

[White]

{Yellow}

 

“Um. Hiya, doc. I’m, uh . . . I’m Wade. But I guess you already know that,” Wade added gruffly, blushing as his gaze sidled away from Dr. Parker's intense, intent one. The other man sat on the edge of the conference table, just within touching distance of Wade’s hand. “Hell, after all those interviews and questionnaires, I’m guessin’ there’s not a lot ya _don’t_ know about me.”

 

“Perhaps,” Dr. Parker allowed thoughtfully, and Wade blushed even harder under the other man’s frank, palpable regard. “But then, there’s a difference between all _that_ horseshit and the actual people involved in the match, y’know?”

 

“Oh, really?” Curious, Wade risked a glance at the handsome, Alpha doctor—the kind of guy Wade’s mother had always been bitter about _not_ getting impregnated by, and had told Wade to not ever even _hope_ for a chance at—and caught the strangest, hungriest expression on his boyish face. An expression which was quickly smoothed over as the doctor looked away quickly, taking a shallow, but shaking breath. “All your hard work and profiles and stuff is just _horseshit_? Good to know, doc.”

 

Dr. Parker’s smile was wry and aimed at the urn of decaf. “Eh. It’s my life’s work, I get to call it horseshit if I want. And please.” The doctor aimed a veiled and hooded look at Wade, then back at the snacks. “Call me _Peter_.”

 

“Okay. Um. Peter.” Frowning, Wade’s own gaze sidled off to the snacks, too. He reached out for a biscotti at the exact same moment Peter reached for a sugar cookie and their hands crashed and fingers bashed. They both hurried to apologize, quickly drawing back from the snacks without their intended cookies, while sneaking uncertain glances at each other.

 

A silence descended that was both awkward and expectant. Yet still, not quite unpleasant.

 

“Chemistry,” Peter finally said, a tad desperately. Wade’s eyes widened and Peter flushed, avoiding that startled gaze. “I mean, personality profiles and shit are all well and good, Wade. My business partner, Dr. Stacy, and I, spent _years_ perfecting this matching system, y’know? But even a couple of psychology and computer geeks like us know that in the end, psychology and computers don’t really mean jack if there’s, um, no chemistry. Between the potential mates, that is,” he added, turning redder as he darted out quickly and snagged a biscotti. With a limp sort of smile, he offered it to Wade and shrugged. “Chemistry’s not something one can program or predict, and yet it’s the most important thing of all. What Dr. Stacy and I do is _important, too,_ and helps along that chemistry . . . maybe helps narrow its focus. But we can neither control nor direct it.”

 

Blinking up at Peter, then down at the proffered biscotti, Wade smirked a little. “Wow. Are you always this . . . forthcoming with your clients? We expect you guys to perform miracles, ya know? And here you are, showin’ me the man behind the curtain.”

 

Peter’s limp smile turned into a small, crooked grin. “Eh. You seem like a pretty quick cat and cool kitten. Like you already know that chemistry is king and the staff at _A Match For Me,_ and places like it, are at best just the king’s . . . advisors? Seneschals? Outriders? Jesters, even?”

 

Wade snorted. “Yeah. I kinda _did_ know. _Do_ know. But let’s face it, a guy with a mug like mine needs all the help he can get—be it from the advisors, jesters, stable-boy, or scullery-girl.”

 

“I can imagine,” Peter agreed rather wistfully, sighing even as Wade curled up and died inside at the cute doctor’s unhesitating agreement. Then Peter was chuckling and shaking his head almost ruefully. “Jeez, Wade, with a face like yours, you’re probably beating off the Alphas with a fucking Louisville slugger. It must be Hell-in-a-hand-basket just trying to wrap your brain around all the Alphas vying for your favor.”

 

“All the—” Wade snorted again. “Are you for _real_ , Dr. Parker?” When Peter’s brow furrowed in silent question, Wade laughed, bitter and low. “Listen, doc, you’ve already got my money. And it’s not like I got any choices about where else to go for help, considering my financial status. Or lack thereof. So, you don’t have to pretend like I’m not fuckin’ hideous about the face, to the point where even a desperate Alpha at the _apex_ of his _worst_ heat wouldn’t pick me over a half-way decent fuck-toy.” Waving at his own face, Wade shrugged. “I’ve been living with this face for almost four years, now. I’m used to bein’ ugly as shit and I’ve heard just about every possible insult that could be leveled relevantly at someone with a Freddy Krueger-face like mine. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me or pretend like I’m attractive or like you can see my _inner beauty_ , or whatever. Okay, doc?”

 

Peter’s furrowed brow and ponderous frown had only deepened during Wade’s speech and now, he retracted the hand with the biscotti, taking a bite of it, himself.

 

“Scars are, in their own way, amazing, aren’t they, Wade?” he finally said, his free hand coming up for a few moments to cover his mouth till he swallowed. But his eyes never left Wade. “They have a way of making people ugly. Not the people who _have_ them, of course,” Peter added gently, when Wade winced, looking down. But Peter reached out with his biscotti hand, touching Wade’s scarred chin with his middle and ring fingers, tilting it back up till their eyes met again. “But the people who _don’t_ , and then perceive those scars on others as anything but badges of bravery and marks of survival.”

 

Wade gazed into Peter’s dark eyes for long moments before letting out a held breath. On his inhale, he could smell the Alpha’s musky, strong, juniper-pine-ozone scent as if he’d buried his face in Peter’s neck. Or maybe his crotch.

 

That thought made Wade blush again, though he didn’t dare look away . . . not when Peter had—wordlessly, but tacitly—commanded his full attention.

 

“You’re a _beautiful_ man, Wade Wilson,” Peter murmured, his eyes skating boldly across Wade’s face as his frown slowly turned into a small, wondering smile. “Inside and out. Your scars, visible and invisible, don’t detract from that beauty, but _add_ to it. _Enhance_ it. Almost to the point that I’d say you were a gilded lily, but . . . you wear the gilt _far_ better than some dumb swamp-blossom.”

 

Still red about the face, Wade found himself smiling, too—even if Peter wasn’t being sincere (and his scent was still straightforward and honest, suggesting he was, indeed, being _utterly_ sincere) the kindness was, unusually, appreciated—and before he could think better, he’d tilted his head down a bit to lick the half a biscotti held between Peter’s index finger and thumb. In the process, he just so happened to run his tongue up the tip of Peter’s index finger- and thumb-tip before his lips closed around them and the half-biscotti.

 

All without glancing away from Peter’s now wide, nakedly hungry gaze.

 

And for long moments after Peter had released the biscotti and Wade had accepted the piece of cookie into his mouth, his lips remained closed around Peter’s fingertips, swiping them with teases and swirls of his suddenly wet tongue, and applying gentle, questioning suction.

 

“Jesus, Wade . . . if I was your Alpha,” Peter began in a low, hoarse voice that shook markedly. “If you were _mine_. . . .”

 

“If I was yours . . . what?” Wade asked when he pulled off of Peter’s fingertips slowly, with a ridiculously lascivious slurp, still holding Peter’s dark, intense gaze. His mouth began to water from more than just the sweet, cinnamon-chocolate taste of the biscotti on his tongue. Said biscotti was already a melted, sodden mess that he chewed tokenly before swallowing. Then he licked his lips—and he was definitely _not_ imagining the way Peter’s eyes caught the motion before darting to Wade’s heatedly, once more—and smiled in a way that’d only ever worked on Nate, and only when the Alpha was in a rut that one time. “If you were _my Alpha_ . . . what _then_ , doc?”

 

(The good doctor’s musky scent had increased to a point that Wade could all but taste it. And he could smell the combined scent of it and the—to him—sickening-sweet scent of his own waterfall of slick. His ass felt uncomfortably wet and he was wondering if he’d soak through his napkin before the damn meeting even started. He was pretty sure the front of his jeans had already developed a _sizable_ wet-spot.)

 

Peter brought the fingers Wade had teased to his lips and licked them, as if for traces of sweetness Wade might’ve missed. Not once did their gazes break.

 

“If I was your Alpha and you were my omega, Wade. . . .” Peter exhaled as shakily as before, if not more so. Then he was standing up and moving even further into Wade’s personal space, till he was staring directly down into Wade’s eyes and Wade was staring up into his. For a few moments, anyway, because Peter’s eyelids fluttered closed as he took a deep, deep breath and moaned. “You smell _so good_. So sweet and pure and _ready_ . . . and if you were _my omega_ , I’d lay you down in my bed and spend an hour just _tasting_ you. Burying my face in you, and just breathing in and lapping up that clover-honey and vanilla slick straight from the source.”

 

Wade’s eyes widened and he gulped as the White Voice sternly ordered him to not breathe in through his nose or else he’d surely lose what tentative control he had over himself in grand fashion.

 

The Yellow Voice, however, was a bit less circumspect: {Jesus, didja notice his dick is _right in front of our face_ and he’s _hard_? Like, _really_ hard?}

 

A glance down to eye-level showed that the Yellow Voice was, indeed, right. Dr. Peter Parker was hard _and_ erect, tenting out the front of his wrinkled khakis formidably.

 

Oh, and Wade made the glorious mistake of _inhaling through his nose_ , and . . . couldn’t seem to stop. Couldn’t get enough of that summer-green-lightning scent. Wanted to roll around in it and be covered in it. _Owned_ by it. Marked by and _mated_ to it.

 

Before he could consciously deliberate over it, Wade’s hands were settling on Peter’s slim hips and pulling the Alpha closer, until Wade could lean forward and bury his nose in the strongest source of that extra-masculine scent. Until Wade’s face was pressed alongside Peter’s hard and . . . holy shit, _knotting_ dick.

 

“ _Waaaaade_ ,” Peter groaned softly, his left hand coming up to cup Wade’s face so, so gently, his thumb stroking Wade’s scarred cheek tenderly. “God, sweetheart, what’re you . . . what’re you _doing_?” When Wade didn’t answer, just mouthed the side of his cloth-covered dick, Peter huffed and cleared his throat. “ _Look at me._ ”

 

“ _Alpha_ . . . _please_?” Wade breathed huskily, eyes wide and on the prize for most of a minute before he could make himself meet Peter’s bright, hungry, _possessive_ gaze. That look was so naked and honest and _yearning_ , it took Wade’s breath away. No one had ever looked at him like that. Certainly not _Nate_. “ _Please_.”

 

This time, Peter’s eyes were the ones to widen before they slipped shut again and he groaned once more, his hips stuttering toward Wade gently, but firmly. The scent of him, of his arousal, increased exponentially. Wade closed his eyes and buried his face in the shallow dip between Peter’s thigh and pelvis, lost to that scent even as he tried to think. To catch his breath. To hear beyond the Yellow Voice’s cheering to the White Voice’s warnings and dour predictions.

 

But then, oh, then, Peter’s other hand was in his hair, carding through it so fondly and affectionately, Wade shivered as tears leaked out of his eyes.

 

And maybe Peter sensed the change in mood or could smell it, because he was suddenly pulling back and kneeling in front of Wade, looking up into his eyes even as he cupped Wade’s jaw in both his big, reverent hands.

 

“What’s wrong, handsome?” he asked softly, his thumbs stroking Wade’s cheeks once more. Then he bobbed up and kissed Wade’s forehead, the bridge of his nose, and the very tip of it, lingering till Wade actually giggled around his throat full of tears. “God, even when you’re _upset_ , you _smell_ . . . like everything I ever wanted and a few things I never knew I _did_. So fucking _beautiful_ , Wade. . . .”

 

“Stop,” Wade begged, shaking his head and pulling away. Or trying to, but despite Wade’s own considerable physical strength, he really didn’t _want_ to be away from Peter or his touch. And anyway, Peter was an Alpha in his prime; besides the implicit command to _stay_ in his touch and scent, he was also just naturally _stronger_. Maybe not by a huge factor, but by enough to keep Wade where he wanted him. “Please, _don’t_.”

 

“Don’t _what_ , sweetheart?” Peter nuzzled Wade’s nose with his own before leaning a bit lower, to scent the overheated junction between Wade’s jawbone and ear. “Holy Jesus, even your baseline scent is just . . . fucking gorgeous. _Perfect_. . . .”

 

“You probably say that shit to all the omegas who want your knot,” Wade said cynically—or tried to. The White Voice nodded approvingly, while the Yellow Voice roundly cursed them both.

 

“Um . . . I’ve never said that to _anyone_ , actually. Kinda never expected to,” Peter breathed on Wade’s pulse, then sat up to look him in the eye solemnly, but hungrily, once more. “You want my knot?”

 

Turning positively scarlet, now, Wade looked away, swallowing. “That’s neither here nor there.”

 

“Oh, it’s here, there, and _everywhere_ , beautiful,” Peter insisted, leveling that dark, smoldering gaze on Wade again. Wade shivered at that and the affectionate pet-name. No one had ever been _affectionate_ toward him, except in vague, pitying ways throughout his life. But nothing quite like _this_. Nothing like the seeming adoration Peter was lavishing on him. “Look, Wade . . . I dunno what’s going on between us—I’ve _never_ had such an intense physical and emotional response to anyone or their scent in . . . _ever_. And at this moment, my _every instinct_ in shrilling at me to kiss you and claim you. To push you down to the floor, pull those strong legs up over my shoulders, and drive my cock into you as hard and as deep as I can, till you _come_ digging your nails into my arms and screaming my name.” Wade shivered and moaned, and Peter leaned in close, till his forehead was resting gently against Wade’s, his breath hot, and redolent of bubblegum and biscotti on Wade’s face. “Till _I_ come, with my teeth in that spot between your neck and collar, where your scent is so tantalizing and strong. Till my teeth bite down scarring-deep and your blood is all over my face and in my mouth.” Groaning, Peter wrapped his arms around Wade’s waist, pulling him closer, until Wade was literally on the edge of his seat with Peter between his legs. Until Peter’s lips brushed Wade’s with every heated word he spoke. “And I wanna do that over and over and over, till my mark is permanent and I’ve knotted you over and over and _over_ . . . till I can’t get hard, anymore. Till we’re wiped-the-fuck-out and too wrecked to do anything but bask in each other. Till I smell like your _mate_ and you smell like _mine_. Mine, and the life we’ll have created toge—”

 

Just then, before Peter could finish his sentence and before his lips could press Wade’s, an annoying triple-beep sounded from the table, somewhere beyond the coffee urns and snacks.

 

“Heyya, Pete? Mr. Demski is here,” MJ’s brassy voice said, loud and clear, and startling Wade and Peter apart guiltily, the latter jumping to his feet. “Shall I send him in?”

 

Peter’s eyes met Wade’s, alarmed and chagrined. Still heated and possessive, but a bit confused, too.

 

“As soon as he comes in here, he’s gonna smell that we’re—” Wade trailed off vaguely, waving at the space between himself and Peter. Peter nodded.

 

“Yeah. Uh— _fuck_.” Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head. “I’m trying to think of something—figure out what happens next, but honestly . . . all I can think about is how _good_ you smell and how _bad_ I wanna be inside you and that’s . . . unprofessional as fuck, but it is what it is.”

 

“What about my match?” Wade asked reluctantly. “What about . . . what about my potential Alpha?”

 

Peter actually _growled_ , his head whipping up, and his eyes narrowed and flashing dangerously.

 

“ _Don’t call him that_ ,” he commanded flatly and Wade, wide-eyed and nodding, leaned back in his chair meekly, both intimidated and turned-on.

 

Peter, meanwhile had started to pace—just a few steps to the wall then back to the table. “And you wanna know what the bitch of this is? It’s my _own damn fault!_ All of this! I knew coming into this that—” falling silent, Peter shook his head and sighed, pausing to look at Wade. “Jesus, I’m _sorry_ , Wade.”

 

Stung and hurt, but understanding the need to be professional, to hold to one’s duty, Wade closed in on himself even as he spread his arms expansively. “Hey, like you said, it is what it is, right? He’s my best possible match and . . . and all that stuff about chemistry aside . . . maybe runnin’ on pure instinct ain’t the best idea when it comes to mating, right? Right?”

 

Peter simply stared at Wade for a long minute, during which MJ beeped and asked about sending in Mr. Demski, again.

 

Finally, Peter heaved another sigh and approached Wade slowly, kneeling once more.

 

“That’s the thing, Wade . . . I wasn’t totally honest about . . . Jesus, I’ve just been all kinds of un-fucking-professional from the beginning, where you’re concerned. But . . . I wasn’t honest about Mr. Demski—your best match—being your _best_ match,” Peter said, his intent, but stricken and guilty eyes pleading and miserable on Wade’s.

 

Once more, Wade could only blink at first. Then he was stammering out: “B-but he was a 93.896% match . . . it doesn’t get much higher than _that_ , right, Pete?”

 

Snorting, Peter took Wade’s hands, looking down at them as he stroked Wade’s knuckles. “Not _much_ higher, but . . . still, there’s room for improvement on almost 94%. You matched 99.989 percent with . . . someone else. Someone who’d only even been in our system as a beta test and who’d _never_ been matched with _anyone_ in four years.” Peter looked up into Wade’s eyes again and Wade found himself shivering.

 

“Who’d the system match me with, Pete?” he asked through numb lips, because he _knew_. From the sharp, salty-anxious spike in Peter’s juniper-scent to the guilty set of his expressive face.

 

Wade _knew_ , and Peter _knew_ that he knew.

 

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered quickly, leaning in as Wade pulled away, tugging on hands that Peter wasn’t letting go of. “I . . . was sure there was some mistake or that the algorithm was glitching—I’ve been trying to fix it for six days, up until just after you got here, but you and I _keep_ matching up and Gwennie says the algorithm’s pretty much infallible. So—”

 

“So you didn’t wanna be matched with someone who lied to his country and got caught, then booted out of the military. Some dirt-poor, damn freak-show with a scarred face and a personality even his mother couldn’t stand. Yeah. I get it. Believe me,” Wade said, shaking his head. “I get it.”

 

“I don’t think you do,” Peter said quietly, desperately, leaning closer as Wade stood abruptly, yanking his hands free, at last.

 

“I’m fugly, not stupid, Pete.” Wade backed around his chair and away from Peter, who stood up slowly, still looking utterly miserable. And now Wade was pretty sure he knew why. After all, it wasn’t every day a handsome, upwardly-mobile young doctor got told his near-perfect match was . . . someone like Wade.

 

Pasting a hard grin on his face, Wade turned and stalked toward the double doors. “Thanks for all the _help_ , doc. I’ll see myself out.”

 

“Wade, _wait_ —” no Alpha-command in that voice, just simple pleading, but Wade flinched and wavered, nonetheless.

 

Then he squared his shoulders and strengthened his resolve. A second or two later he was yanking open the double doors, startling MJ into stumbling backwards and almost falling. But she was caught in the arms of some tall, buff—about Wade’s height and weight—conventionally handsome guy in a grey, three-piece suit, with perfect blond hair, kind blue eyes, and a friendly, slightly dopey smile. He steadied MJ easily, but his eyes were wide on Wade’s face.

 

“H-Hi,” he stuttered breathlessly, his smile widening as his eyes skated quickly over Wade with unhidden interest. “M-My name’s B-B-Bob Demski—”

 

“Yeah, ya seem like a nice guy, Mr. Bob Demski. Do yourself a favor,” Wade said, cutting off Bob’s adorable stutter. “Try _Matches Made in Heaven_ , instead. Sure, they cost a bit more, but some professional honesty is worth the extra clams, am I right?”

 

“Huh. . . ?” Bob asked, brow furrowing in question. Wade winked at the flustered cutie before nodding at a stabilized and standing MJ, then edging past them both, out of the reception area and toward the elevators.

 

It wasn’t, however, until he stepped out of the lobby of the building, and onto Ninth Street between First and Second Avenues—shaking and still, somehow, _hard_ —that he realized, with something akin to the greatest heartbreak he’d ever known, that Dr. Peter Parker would _not_ be coming after him.

 

And really, heartbreak aside, it wasn’t any kind of surprise.

 

TBC


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade has a run-in with his second-best-match. There's alcohol involved, and an impending and unexpected--if you don't read the tags--hook-up. Or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. No powers. A/B/O. White and Yellow will only appear sporadically (you’ll see what I mean). Knotting, mating, breeding, eventual M-preg. And seriously, I'm getting to the comment,s really, I am . . . ever time I plan to, though, another chapter of this fic comes rolling out. Sorry, my faithful commenters. I WILL get to it soon.

[White]

{Yellow}

 

What _was_ a surprise—after minutes or maybe longer, of standing in front of the old, stone building where _A Match For Me_ did business—was the kind, stuttering voice that sounded softly at his elbow.

 

“I never d-did get your n-name . . . you seemed k-k-kinda upset,” the voice said hesitantly, and Wade snorted, glancing over at his nearly-94% match. The other man was every bit as handsome as advertised, right down to the quirky dimple in his right cheek that saved his face from being a total Ken-doll with its plastic perfection. Wade caught a faint hint of a scent like loamy soil and oranges when he inhaled slightly. It was a friendly, equally quirky sort of a scent that, while nice was, after _Peter Parker’s_ scent, less than interesting. His body reacted in no way, whatsoever, to the presence of this attractive, pulled-together Alpha.

 

{No chemistry,} the Yellow Voice noted unnecessarily. {This‘un’s a dud!}

 

[Well, let’s not be too hasty. Ninety-four percent, or _almost_ , is nothing to sneeze at. Take another sniff of him and get the lay of the land, so to speak, before you decide. After all, Dr. Parker is obviously off the table. It’s time to be practical, once more,] the White Voice said, ever the pragmatist.

 

Sighing, Wade met his second-best-match’s friendly, guileless blue eyes and inhaled deeply, but subtly.

 

He could scent many things on this Alpha—strength, health, good humor, motor oil, oatmeal cookies— _oatmeal cookies?_ —and tentative attraction that was _not_ strong enough to be a reaction to the pheromones Wade’s body was putting out. In fact, _this_ Alpha didn’t seem to be reacting to Wade’s heat at all.

 

“You’re not attracted to me,” Wade blurted out, frowning. The Alpha smiled, sunny and sweet.

 

“And y-you’re not attracted to m-m-me,” he replied brightly, laughing. “It’s w-weird how that w-works, isn’t it? I m-mean, Dr. Parker, himself, g-g-gave me this s-speech once about how ch-ch-chemistry is k-king, and that m-matchmaking services can help it along. B-but in our case . . . I don’t think all the h-help in the world’d work to m-m-make our chemicals _right_ for each other. And d-don’t g-get me wrong,” the Alpha added, holding up his hands in placation, though Wade had expressed nothing but mild dismay, so far. “If I hadn’t w-walked into that wall of hormonal s-s-soup you and Dr. P-Parker were, uh, working on, I would’ve _g-gladly_ been your heat-mate, and m-maybe more, if you wanted. I th-think you’re . . . well, g-g-gosh, but you’re awfully handsome. . . .”

 

Wade blinked. Then squinted. “Seriously?” he demanded, and the Alpha nodded cheerily.

 

“Oh, f-fo’ shizz!” he enthused, obviously trying to sound cool. Cool for 2002, anyway. Wade rolled his eyes and snorted again.

 

“Pal, you and the good doctor both need your eyes checked, _pronto_.”

 

“Oh . . . I d-don’t think we do,” the Alpha said quietly, his smile earnest and hopeful. “I m-m-mean, aside from being r-ruggedly handsome, you’ve g-got the most _amazing_ g-green eyes I’ve ever seen and a body most p-p-people’d kill to have or have under them.”

 

And so saying, the Alpha actually _blushed_.

 

{That’s twice in one day, someone’s said we’re _not_ ugly as sin . . . what? Is everyone drunk already? It’s not even five o’clock, yet!}

 

[This _is_ most unusual,] White agreed warily.

 

Wade shook his head, even though he and the Voices were on the same wavelength, for once. “I’m nobody’s idea of a dream-omega, buddy.”

 

“I wouldn’t s-say that.” The Alpha glanced back the way they’d come, then back to Wade. “I m-met Dr. Parker for the f-first time at a C-Connors Tech g-g-gala and fundraiser, not too long ago. He s-s-struck me as a cool c-customer. Very much head-over-heart. And head-over-other-p-parts, too. I don’t th-th-think the _average_ Alpha’s idea of a ‘d-d-dream-omega’ would appeal to him. It s-sure doesn’t to me, either. Wh-which is why he and I g-g-got along so well, I r-reckon.” Shrugging, the Alpha shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and seesawed back and forth on heel and toe for a few seconds. “I f-figured he and I were kinda looking for the s-s-same thing. Which is why I signed on with his m-m-matchmaking service over the others. Little d-did I know that—well. We were looking f-f-for _exactly_ the s-same thing.”

 

Wade let his left eyebrow do some speaking. “Uh-huh. You were both looking for some desperate, poor, scarred-up, past-his-prime omega to call your very own?”

 

The Alpha looked as if he might gainsay that for a moment, then he sighed and smiled sheepishly. “S-something like that,” was his eventual reply, and Wade smirked. “And we’ve all g-g-got things about ourselves that w-we aren’t too happy about. You’ve g-g-got your scars and I’ve got my s-s-stutter.”

 

“I, um . . . think your stutter’s kinda adorable,” Wade said bravely, and the smile the Alpha gave him was very much worth the price of admission.

 

“Y’know, n-no one’s ever s-said that to me. Not even my m-m-mom, and she thought just about everything I d-did was adorable,” the Alpha mused wistfully. Then his focus snapped back to Wade for a measuring once-over. “Dr. Parker’s a v-very lucky man. Rather, he _will be_ if he p-pulls his head out of his b-behind.”

 

“Yeah, right.” Wade rolled his eyes. “He’s lucky he fobbed me off on _you_. Peter Parker doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

 

“That’s, uh, n-not what _I_ s-smelled when those d-doors opened,” the Alpha’s gaze, though still friendly, was very intent and impossible to look away from. “Like I s-said, the chemicals between you two are . . . p-p-powerful and pretty exclusive. You two’ve c-claimed each other in every way two people c-can without _actually_ mating and b-b-bonding. Even if I _were_ inclined to t-try and g-g-get between you two, I wouldn’t b-be _able_ to. _I’d_ n-never satisfy _you_ , now that you’ve met Dr. P-Parker, and now that he’s m-met someone who’s . . . made him lose his c-c-cool so obviously, he’d probably try to k-k-kill me— _literally_ —if I so much as s-s-stole a kiss from you.”

 

{For realz?} Yellow asked meekly, shyly, quite unlike its usual confident assertions. White snorted.

 

[Of _course_ not for real! Obviously this Alpha is merely trying to be kind to us. If only because he feels bad that _he_ doesn’t want us, either.]

 

The White Voice, though a downer, was always right. Not acknowledging that wouldn’t make it wrong. Wade knew that from nearly four years of hard experience.

 

“Yeah, well, whatevs, Trevs,” he muttered to the Alpha, meaning to end this pointless convo, hurry off to the nearest bus-stop, and ride around Manhattan for a few hours. Just till he could bear being cooped up, home, alone, again.

 

But suddenly, the Alpha offered his arm to Wade, who blinked blankly.

 

“Actually, it’s _Bob_. B-Bob Demski,” the Alpha said for the second time, the quirky dimple in his cheek making a reappearance. “And y-you . . . _whoever_ you a-are . . . seem like a m-man in dire need of a d-d-drink. If you’ll allow m-me?”

 

Another surprised blink, and Wade found himself blushing.

 

“No one’s ever offered me their arm, before, pal. That, or anything else, for that matter.”

 

“That’s a s-shame. But th-th-then, there’s really no accounting for t-t-taste.” Bob Demski sniffed, as if offended on Wade’s behalf. It was that, more than anything, that made Wade take the offered arm. It was strong, thick, and sturdy.

 

“The name’s Wilson. Wade Wilson. Gladameetcha, Bob.”

 

“Likewise.” Bob sketched a shallow, but not at all sardonic bow that made Wade blush even harder.

 

“I, uh . . . actually know a bar not too far from here, near where CBGB’s used to be. It’s kind of a dive and the bartender waters down the _water_ , even, but it’s got a great, uh . . . atmos—well, the patrons are really, uh—and the décor is . . . um. _Pretzels_ , Bob. They have bowls of pretzels,” Wade finished desperately, and Bob laughed, letting Wade swing them around toward Avenue A.

 

“P-p-pretzels sound g-g-good,” he said, putting a gentle, protective hand over Wade’s where it rested on his arm.

 

#

 

“. . . so, then, Fat Gandalf says: ‘Oh, no, _hombre_ , that there possum-skin hat is _mine_!’ and fuckin’ _decks_ Bolt—knocks him right the fuck _out_! And the next thing _I_ know, I’m duckin’ under the bartop, waitin’ for the _entire bar_ to stop fightin’! And guess which asshole’s _already under there_!”

 

Weasel jerked his thumb at Wade, who was snickering and knocking back his tenth boilermaker while simultaneously trying not to fall off the stool. He barely even noticed Bob’s absent, but steadying hand on his back, easily keeping him from tipping backwards.

 

“I never even _saw_ him vault over the bar, the fuckin’ pussy! He didn’t even try to break up the fight!” Weasel accused, grinning his big, toothy grin . . . all three of him. Wade slammed his glass down on the bar and blearily eyed his best friend. Friends.

 

“Hey, I ‘pplied for the bouncer position here, but they said no omega’d make a good bouncer. So _fuck that_. They’re lucky I didn’ turn that shit into a riot as revenge! An’ I coulda, y’know!” Wade huffed and Weasel shrugged apologetically.

 

“Sorry, _amigo_ , I tried puttin’ in a good word for ya, I did, but . . . boss-man’s got some old-fashioned ideas about the kinds of jobs omegas are suited for. I’m just lucky tendin’ bar’s one of ‘em,” he sighed, snagging the towel on his shoulder and wiping down the practically pristine bar, his light-brown eyes sidling to Bob who looked both comfortable _and_ out of place in his fancy suit. But he was smiling and engaged, having listened to Weasel’s and Wade’s stories for hours without showing signs of boredom.

 

Of course Wade, drunk though he was, knew that was more down to Weasel than to either of their story-telling prowess. Bob had, in the hours since they’d arrived, done more blushing and glancing away from Weasel than a little omega with a schoolyard crush. And his interest was, it was plain even to a compromised Wade, returned quite intensely.

 

“So . . . Bob . . . can I get ya another, uh . . . what was it you were drinkin’, cutie?” Weasel winked. He’d taken off his glasses hours ago and had been making both sloe-eyes and calf-eyes at Bob ever since.

 

Now, Bob blushed again, red as a tomato. “O-oh . . . I had a d-d-daiquiri . . . virgin. But, um, I’m g-g-good, for now.”

 

“Okie doke,” Weasel said, leaning on the bar and grinning at Bob, who grinned uncertainly back. Though _why_ he was uncertain, Wade didn’t know. He could smell what Dr. Parker would call “chemistry” between them getting stronger and more potent with each passing minute.

 

{Ugh, if you still remember that asshole’s name, you need another drink. Another boilermaker!} Yellow declared. White sighed.

 

[That may not be wise. . . .]

 

{BOILERMAKER!!!!!}

 

Wincing, Wade held up his empty glass, and belched long and loud. Weasel glanced at him irritably, myopically. “I’ll have another boilermaker, if you can tear yourself away from Bob’s baby-blues, Weas.”

 

Eyes narrowing in a—nearsighted—look that clearly said: _I will_ end _you, Wilson. I swear, I will fucking end you_ , Weasel took the glass and set about making the drink.

 

As Weasel moved down the bar, Wade leaned toward Bob, who was staring after the bartender with hearts in his eyes, and whispered: “’S okay to if you wanna go home with him, Bobby. You’ve—‘scuse me—you’ve got my blessin’. _Mazel tov_. Go make tall, blond-haired babies together.”

 

Turning even redder, Bob looked at Wade regretfully. “I, uh. If I d-did that, Wade, how w-would _you_ g-g-get home?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Wade snorted. “Dude. This’s _New York City_. Just pour my drunk-ass into a taxi an’ give the driver a twenny. That’ll get me home in one piece.”

 

Bob frowned. “I’m n-not sure that’s wise, W-W-Wade. I mean . . . you’re already p-pretty inebriated. About to be m-more so. And you’re, um . . . you’re n-n-nearing the apex of your h-h-heat, from the scent, which, b-by the way, is _extremely_ th-th-thick. More than it was this afternoon. Are y-you on s-s-suppressors?”

 

Wade nodded. Nearly fell over. But Bob caught him again, righting him and holding him up. “Missed m’ last dose, though. Doesn’ matter. I’ve gotten through heats before with no suppressors and no heat-mate. I c’n do it again.”

 

[That was when you were a teenager. Before the heats had a chance to really set in. We’re thirty-two, now. Heats are a _lot_ more powerful and draining than they were half a lifetime ago. We really ought to call Nate—]

 

{Over our cold corpse!}

 

[It might come to that, Yellow, if the heat saps us and makes us sick enough,] White noted calmly, and Yellow growled, but didn’t reply.

 

“If you w-want,” Bob was saying hesitantly, but clearly forging on manfully. “I c-c-could . . . be your heat-mate, anyway. G-g-get you through the w-worst of it? I mean, I’m n-not the Alpha you _want_ , b-but I’m available. And m-maybe your body’ll be nice and play c-c-cricket till Dr. Parker c-c-comes to his senses.”

 

“Fuck Peter Parker,” Wade said flatly, snatching the boilermaker as Weasel drifted back over to him. It was gone in seconds, then Wade was staggering to his feet, trying to make the room stop spinning. Bob jumped up, steadying and righting him, until Wade, annoyed, flapped his arms and waved the other man off. “An’ _you_ , Bob Demski . . . thanks for your kind offer, but _I’m_ not the omega you need to be servicin’, t’night.”

 

Weasel’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at Bob, who blanched and made an apologetic face right back.

 

“He was jus’ offerin’ to be nice, Jack. Don’ be mad at him. He’s jus’ . . . worried. But there’s no need to worry, party-people! Wade Wilson is _fine_. Always has been, always will be. So, you two—” Wade swung his bleary gaze between his two friends. “—for God’s sake, jus’ _make-out_ already. Swap some spit—and other bodily fluids, should the occasion arise—an’ I’mma go to the li'l omegas' room. KTHANXBYE!”

 

“W-wait—you n-need, uh, help?” Bob called after Wade as he staggered his way toward the omegas’ restroom. Wade flapped a hand back in a dismissive wave.

 

“Not even a little, Bob-ski. Minimum effort!”

 

Once the door of the omegas’ room shut behind him, Wade leaned on it for a minute, trying to collect himself. Then he took out his wallet and did a dead presidents count.

 

{Thirteen bucks . . . think that’s enough to get us home?}

 

[If we take the subway, it’s more than enough.]

 

{Aw. . . ! I wanna take a taxi! They always smell like curry!}

 

“Yeah . . . like curry somebody already ate,” Wade muttered, snorting as he shoved his wallet back in his pocket, made his way to the urinals, emptied his full bladder, then washed his hands and splashed his face with cold water for a few minutes.

 

When he opened the door to the omegas’ room again, he peered out and down the brief hallway, toward the bar. In the shifting crowds of lonely and bitter Alphas and omegas, he could see Bob and Weasel at the bar, a bright spot of happiness: [Weasel laughing at something Bob had said, and Bob taking a sip of something that looked like Weasel’s signature drink, the infamous and lethal _blowjob_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8623534).

 

Smirking, Wade turned the opposite way down the hall, toward the back exit. Minimum effort, indeed.

 

#

 

An uneventful hour and ten minutes later, Wade was staggering into the lobby of his apartment building in East Harlem.

 

Despite being obviously hammered, he’d made it the whole ride home without being accosted by any asshole Alphas—though he’d garnered quite a few looks, lecherous and not, considering his now unsuppressed heat and the scent he was putting out, advertising his status to all and sundry.

 

But, omega or not, At six-two, two hundred twenty-one pounds of muscle, Wade wasn’t often fucked with, heat or not.

 

Mostly sobered up, though still unsteady, Wade slowly made his way up the four flights of stairs to his tiny, recently fumigated apartment. He was so focused on trying not to fall and break his neck, that it wasn’t until he arrived on the fourth floor landing and saw someone sitting across from his door, fast asleep with his head against the wall, that he realized he’d been smelling a familiar, mouth-watering, slick-teasing scent . . . like juniper-pine-ozone. . . .

 

Certain he was hallucinating, Wade stumbled forward in the narrow, quiet corridor—even the Voices were struck silent in shock—fumbling in his jacket pocket for his keys. He blinked his blurry eyes to banish the hallucination, but it stayed put, in its grey windbreaker, ugly blue-green paisley shirt, wrinkled khakis, and hideous red and blue Adidas.

 

“Peter?” It fell from Wade’s lips before he realized he meant to speak, and the sleeping figure snorted, mumbling to himself as his eyes fluttered open, locking on Wade as sleep fled and awareness kicked in.

 

“Wade!” Peter blinked again, recognition and surprise widening his dark eyes. Then he was scrambling to his feet, a ratty, brown backpack slung over his shoulder. “You’re . . . you’re here!”

 

“Yeah, go figure. It’s almost like I _live_ here, or somethin’,” Wade muttered, backing up a few steps before turning to his door. It took several tries before he could get the key into the lock. The Alpha’s scent was stronger than ever and Wade’s body was reacting to it in quite a confused rush. “What’re you doin’ here, Dr. Parker?”

 

“Waiting for _you_ , Wade . . . and it’s _Peter_ , remember? I asked you to call me _Peter_.” That voice, low and smooth, was right behind Wade. He could even feel Peter’s body-heat, and it caused a prolonged shudder. A _frisson_ of pure _want_ that Wade couldn’t control, only weather, and hope he was still standing when it passed.

 

“I . . . I don’t think that’s wise, Dr. Parker.” He unlocked his door, but didn’t turn the knob to open it.

 

There was a soft sigh that stirred the ends of Wade’s hair. “Wade . . . I need to tell you some things—there’s . . . there’s so much we need to discuss—”

 

“I think we’ve said all that needs to be said, Dr. Parker. Anything else would just be . . . pointless pain.” Wade leaned his head against the cool wood of his door, taking a deep breath through his mouth, but it didn’t help. “You should go.”

 

“Are you _kidding_? I’ve been sitting out here waiting for you since six! I’ve written and rewritten speeches and monologues in my head. Fucking _sonnets_ that’d explain how I felt and how I _feel_ —that I was sure would win your ear and maybe even your heart.” Peter snorted, rueful and self-mocking. “Now, of course, they’re all forgotten, and all I have is the plain truth, which I know ain’t worth much, but it’s all I’ve got to work with, now. . . .”

 

Wade laughed wearily, bitterly. “Peter— _Dr. Parker_ . . . I—”

 

“But first things first,” Peter interrupted Wade to say, his large, warm hands settling on Wade’s hips, sure and somehow steadying. He leaned his chin on Wade’s shoulder, even though he probably had to stand on his toes to do so. “You _are_ my perfect match, Wade Wilson. Mate not just of my body, but of my _heart_. You excite me physically, emotionally, and intellectually. You fascinate me and make my heart beat faster. You turn me into a fucking _caveman_ at the thought of you with someone else, but at the same time . . . I want nothing more than to be a better, more _evolved_ person for _you_. _Because_ of you. You’re the other half of me. Not just my compliment, but my _completion_. I knew this from the moment I _saw_ your video interview, never mind when the damn algorithm finished cranking out your matches. And scenting you was just confirming what I already knew: I was a goner. From the moment you entered my life, I was lost. And that . . . that scared me so bad, I would’ve done _anything_ to make it not true. To make it _and_ you go away.” Sighing, Peter shifted a little, leaning his forehead on Wade’s shoulder. “I was a fool.”

 

Shaking—though Wade only just realized he was, and didn’t know for how long he’d been doing so—Wade let go of his door knob. “Why?” he asked hoarsely, around a throat full of tears that came from nowhere. “Was it . . . was it because of . . . how I look—or that I got booted outta the army for lying about my gender—”

 

“No!” Peter said with such force and vehemence, Wade shuddered again, that same frisson of want working its way from inside, out, and back again. “I _told_ you, sweetheart, you’re _beautiful_. _So_ damn beautiful . . . I know you think the scars make you less than perfect, but they don’t, they only _enhance_ what everyone but you can see: that you’re the most gorgeous person we’ll ever be lucky enough to clap eyes on, as my Aunt May would say. Just _looking_ at you makes me desperate to _have_ you. And _meeting_ you was . . . a revelation. You’re even more beautiful inside than out. So brave and strong and _tough_ and just . . . amazing. Impossible. _Perfect_. And just so you know: I hacked my way into your service record and . . . any military that’d throw away a soldier like _you_ doesn’t _deserve_ a soldier like you.”

 

“Then why . . . why didn’t you _want_ me?” Wade hiccupped, wiping his wet cheeks surreptitiously. “Why’d you fob me off on Bob Demski if I’m so gorgeous and wonderful?”

 

Peter sighed heavily. “Because . . . I was scared.” His voice was both raw and hesitant. Angry, but not at Wade.

 

Surprised, Wade found himself turning to face Peter. The other’s hands slid around his hips without letting go, before tightening again, possessive and warm. Peter’s umber eyes were in a sea of damp pink sclera, his lower lip chapped and bitten, his dark hair a riotous mess all over his head.

 

He looked so vulnerable and hopeful, boyish and young. And yet . . . he exuded strength, power, and _presence_ . . . commanding and charismatic, which Wade responded to on a cellular level, it seemed.

 

And he wanted nothing more, in that moment, than to bury himself in Peter’s arms. _His Alpha’s_ arms.

 

“Scared of what?” he asked instead, and Peter looked down for a minute, his brow furrowed.

 

“My, uh . . . my Dad, Richard Parker, and his older brother Ben, lost their mother, an omega named Meg, oddly enough, when they were very young. She died, in fact, giving birth to my father. My grandfather, James, never recovered. Never remarried. Died alone and bitter. Sent my Dad and Uncle Ben off to be raised by his sister. They grew up. Got married. Uncle Ben to his Alpha, my Aunt May. My Dad to his omega . . . my Mom, Mary. When I was five . . . there was a . . . a plane crash. No one survived . . . except for my Dad.” Peter made a strange face, then looked up at Wade, his cheeks wet with tears, his eyes grave and intent. “Not a scratch on him. Not a concussion or a sprain. Just a burnt-up, dirty suit and an incinerated laptop.” That solemn gaze drifted away again. “The last time I saw my father was right after my mother’s funeral. He told me he had some ‘things to see to,’ and that I’d be living with my Uncle Ben and Aunt May for a while. That was twenty-four years ago. He's never contacted me or them since, that I know of. He just . . . fell off the face of the Earth.”

 

“Jesus, Baby Boy,” Wade whispered, placing his hands tentatively on Peter’s chest, before sliding them up and over his shoulders, to wrap his arms around Peter’s neck. He pulled the Alpha closer, not meeting any resistance, and kissed Peter’s forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed. Peter shivered in his arms.

 

“It was a long time ago. I barely remember what he looks like. Him or my Mom. I mean, I have pictures. Photo albums. But I don’t . . . I _can’t_ . . . it hurts too much to look and I stopped being a masochist a long time ago.” Another heavy sigh. “When I was a teenager, my Uncle Ben was . . . killed by a robber who was trying to get away from the cops. The only reason Uncle Ben was even out so late in such a shitty neighborhood was because I . . . I ran away over something _stupid_. And he went looking for me. All he found was a bullet.” Peter looked up at Wade with a mirthless smile. “And there went the last of my family. Aunt May had a breakdown and she’s been in Pinecrest, up in White Plains, ever since. I visit her every Sunday, and . . . she has her good days and bad days, but . . . she’ll never be the woman, the aunt, the nurse, the _Alpha_ she once was. When she couldn’t take care of me anymore, I was adopted by my father’s old friend, Dr. Connors. He took me in, put me through college. When I got my PhD, he helped me and Gwen get backing for _A Match For Me_ , even though he didn’t exactly approve of the softer sciences or the use to which we intended to put them.”

 

Wade smiled a little and Peter returned it. “So . . . yeah. Top of all my classes—tied for _magna cum laude_ with Gwen all throughout school—all my life. I’ve got a lotta book-learnin’ crammed into my square skull. So, I _know_ , Wade, that I push people away before I even have a chance to love them. Maybe because I’m scared that the Parker Curse’ll strike again, like it has for the past two generations—twice in my father’s. I _know_ that I have abandonment issues and survivor's guilt, misplaced grief and fear of loss that've crippled me for most of my life, but . . . I couldn’t stop myself from tinkering with that damn algorithm! And every time I did, our match percentage got a little higher and a little higher. Gwen even said if I tinkered some more, you and I would wind up matching 112%. That I should just rejoice that I’ve found my perfect match and Alpha-up, already. _Claim him_ before he gets away. Or before _Bob-fucking-Demski_ charms him away.”

 

Wade’s smile curled into a smirk. “I _like_ this Gwen of yours.”

 

Peter’s small smile turned into a crooked grin. “Actually, she’s _MJ’s_ Gwen, not mine. And they’re _disgustingly_ happy together.” He huffed, then his smile faded. “But the advice she gave me—that they _both_ gave me—was sound. So, I’m here to claim my mate before he wises-up and realizes that, chemicals and algorithm aside, he can do so much better than some emotionally-stunted, cowardly child-man. I’m here to . . . to lay my heart on the line and _prove_ myself to you, Wade. That is . . . if Bob Demski _hasn’t_ won you over, yet.”

 

Wade’s eyebrows shot up in puzzlement and Peter scowled down at Wade’s collar. “I can smell his scent on you. Not . . . not _strong_. Not like a _claim_. But it’s _there_. And—”

 

“Baby Boy,” Wade said softly, cupping Peter’s face in his hands and tilting it up toward his own. Those dark, dark eyes were wide and uncertain, hopeful, but scared. Wade smiled again, almost shyly. “Peter . . . would you . . . do you wanna come in? Maybe finish this conversation in some privacy and over some really shitty instant coffee?”

 

Peter’s wide eyes turned into saucers, but he nodded without hesitation, his scent ramping up so much that Wade’s own body began pumping out hormones and pheromones—and _slick_ —at a rate that would’ve been embarrassing if Peter wasn’t so clearly _entranced_ by what he was smelling. His nostrils were flaring delicately, his eyes fluttering shut even as his cheeks turned red.

 

Wade reached behind him to turn the knob and backed into his apartment. Peter stumbled after him, eyes wide-open, again.

 

Wade tossed his keys at the small table by the door as Peter closed it behind him and engaged the deadbolt. Neither of them looked away from each other and they were both breathing hard and deep, like they'd just been chased.

 

“About Bob Demski,” Wade began, blushing, not realizing he was backing up till his thighs hit the arm of his second-hand couch. Peter followed him with a slow, sure, and almost predatory stalk. “About Bob—”

 

Peter growled, his eyes flashing, but steady on Wade’s mouth as he shoved off his ratty backpack and stupid windbreaker, letting both fall to the floor. The ugly tan vest was nowhere to be seen.

 

“He hasn’t . . . he hasn’t _had_ me, Pete,” Wade said softly, still and submissive under that bright, fractious gaze. He even tilted his head back just enough to bare his throat, a sight which made Peter blink rapidly, as if coming back to himself somewhat.

 

_Somewhat_.

 

Then that distracted, possessive gaze met Wade’s.

 

“And he never will,” Peter informed Wade with such gentle finality that it was obviously _not_ a question. Then he was in Wade’s space—all dark, intense, Alpha- _eyes_ and overwhelming, overpowering, hungry Alpha- _scent_ —his hands on Wade’s hips once more as he pulled the omega against him. Against his hard body, harder erection, and into a bruising, consuming— _claiming_ —kiss.

 

TBC


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, seriously? This is pretty much nothing but Alpha/omega porn. Like, with feelings, and shit. But still. Porn. Explicit porn. No violence or cruel stuff, just good ol' A/B/O porn.
> 
> And did I mention there's porn? 'Cause there is. Definitely some porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. No powers. A/B/O. White and Yellow will only appear sporadically (you’ll see what I mean). Knotting, mating, breeding, eventual M-preg.

[White]

{Yellow}

 

By the time the first kiss ended, Wade had fallen over the arm of his sofa, into the threadbare cushions, with Peter on top of him, weighty and groaning as he thrust against Wade.

 

When their _second_ kiss finally broke due to a need for oxygen, Peter was panting with his face pressed into Wade’s throat, and Wade was gasping against Peter’s temple.

 

“ _Please_ , Alpha . . . please. . . .” he managed, tilting his head back in submission. Peter made a hungry, primal sound somewhere between a rumble and a growl before he began nuzzling Wade’s throat and neck, and interspersing those nuzzles with love-bites that were more purposeful than playful. His hands shoved at Wade’s army jacket unsuccessfully.

 

“Seriously about to rip this thing off you, sweetheart,” Peter mumbled around Wade’s collarbone. Wade froze, holding his breath and Peter froze, too, sitting up a little to scan Wade’s face. He frowned, his kiss-swollen mouth turning down. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Please, don’t—this jacket . . . I’ve had it since Basic, back in Canada . . . one of the only things I have from m-my military career, and—”

 

“Say no more, sweetheart,” Peter murmured, kissing Wade with a tenderness that made Wade’s heart ache for something he couldn’t name and had never before experienced. “Sit up for me so we can take it off the civilized way, okay?”

 

“O-okay, Alpha,” Wade breathed almost worshipfully as Peter sat up and straddled him. The flash and flare in those dark eyes was easy to read. Smiling, Wade sat up, too, and shrugged his jacket off, then tossed it at the third-hand arm chair a few feet perpendicular to the sofa. “The rest of this shit, though, feel free to tear off my body as you see fit, Petey-pie.”

 

Grinning, Peter chuckled and swooped in for another kiss, gentle and fond and . . . well, yes, pretty dirty, too.

 

“I’d take you at your word, beautiful, except that the only thing I _ever_ wanna see your divine ass in—besides my hands—is _these jeans_. You have no idea what you _do_ to me in these _jeans_ , baby. And this _shirt_ . . . holy _crow_ , but you’re so built and _sexy_ , and this shirt shows you off to utter _perfection_. And it really brings out those gorgeous, green eyes.”

 

Wade blushed and, of course, right on cue, his body upped its slick output by a million percent. Which Peter could clearly smell because he moaned, his nostrils flaring as his eyes fluttered shut for nearly a minute. A minute during which Wade’s temperature seemed to skyrocket. It felt as if there was almost a literal fire under his skin, in his balls, and deep in his body, in a place even Nate, with his monster-cock, had never touched.

 

“ _Alpha_. . . .” Wade whispered, reaching out to run his fingers along the stark outline of Peter’s cock behind the damp front of those khakis. Peter’s eyes flew open and he watched Wade tease him even harder, till Wade wasn’t just stroking a hard-on, but the beginnings of a knot that was _not_ taking the slow-route in forming. Wade met Peter’s eyes, more than a little surprised.

 

“Are you. . . ?”

 

“In heat? Yep.” Peter nodded solemnly, his face flushed and a bit uncertain. “Been getting worse since you left the office. I’ve been throwing off pheromones and scent, and growling at other Alphas all day, till MJ called Gwennie to come fill in for me and they both ordered me to stop being such a wuss and come after you.” Crooking a half-smile, Peter shrugged. “Barely twelve hours in and this is the strongest, most intense heat I’ve ever had. Feels like I’ve got a fever that only abates when I’m touching you. Only . . . it kinda gets _worse_ , too. I . . . I need to be in you _so bad_ , I feel like I’m gonna die.”

 

Though he laughed as he said it, that laugh was desperate and frazzled. Wade shook his head. “That’s how I feel, too. But I thought . . . I thought Alphas don’t usually go into reactive heats until. . . .”

 

“Until their mates’ scents change and trigger it? Yeah,” Peter said, laughing again. “Guess that means by nature’s standards, you’re my mate, huh?”

 

Wade’s eyes widened and Peter looked uncertain again.

 

“Wanna, uh . . . maybe make it official, soon? Not just wearing each other’s claim mark, but, like . . . _marriage_. One that’s recognized by the state of New York.”

 

Wade’s mouth fell open and for a minute, all he could do was gape and blink. Then he was glaring and punching Peter in the arm. _Hard_.

 

“Ow! Hey!” Peter looked exasperated and confused as he rubbed his bicep. “I take it that’s _not_ a _yes, Peter, let’s get hitched right away_!”

 

“Maybe it _would_ be if you proposed to me when your dick wasn’t about to explode in my face!” Wade shoved Peter backwards and pulled his legs free, swinging his feet to the floor. Peter made a disgruntled sound and sat on the heels of his stupid, ugly sneakers.

 

“Wade—”

 

“Maybe . . . maybe this is a mistake, Pete. Maybe we’re rushing this—”

 

“Do you think I _won’t_ wanna marry you after our heats are over? That I’ll _regret_ proposing?”

 

Snorting, Wade buried his face in his hands. “I _know_ you will, Peter. Wouldn’t be the first time a guy proposed to me while thinking with his dick.”

 

Peter’s surprise was almost tangible. And it was followed by Peter’s long, strong arms around Wade’s shoulders, and Peter’s head resting against his own. “Tell me, sweetheart. Whose throat am I gonna be tearing out for hurting you so bad?”

 

Wade laughed ruefully, looking up and at his reflection in his ancient television. “It’s not Nate’s fault, he . . . I was in heat last year, and I went to him, as I had the two times before that. And—Nate and I barely tolerate each other. I’m pretty sure that if we didn’t fuck each other, we’d have been beating the shit out of each other. Though he probably wouldn’t lower himself to hit an omega.” Snorting again, Wade leaned into Peter instinctively as the Alpha hugged him tighter. “Anyway, I dunno what it was about that particular heat, but . . . it kinda pushed _him_ into a really intense rut and . . . for the first time, he knotted me. Like . . . a _bunch_ of times. And when it was over, we were both so sure I was gonna turn up pregnant, that . . . well, I guess he felt duty-bound to propose. And I was . . . scared and lonely. _So lonely_ , Pete . . . so I said yes. But when I took a pregnancy test—three of them—they were all negative. So, Nate and I went to a clinic, and . . . that’s when they told me that it was pretty unlikely that, after years of illegal suppressors, I’d _ever_ get pregnant. And that was the end of that.”

 

“He . . . he left you?”

 

“ _I_ left _him_ ,” Wade corrected. “I didn’t wanna be with someone who was only with _me_ because of an accident of chemistry and biology. Nate was pushing sixty—though he looked a lot younger and was as strong as a fucking _ox_ —and had managed to avoid being tied-down for forty years. I didn’t wanna force him into anything. Into keeping a word he gave when he thought I was carrying his child.” At last, Wade managed to look at Peter, his eyes stinging. “And I don’t wanna force _you_ to do that, either, Pete. Because I did the right thing once, and let Nate go. But _you_ . . . I’m so fucking in love with you already, I don’t think I could do that a second time.”

 

“And I wouldn’t _want_ you to, sweetheart.” Peter leaned in to kiss Wade’s lips, then the tip of his nose. “I don’t care if we _never_ have children.”

 

Wade made a disbelieving face and Peter shrugged. “Well, I _care_ , but we can always adopt. The fact is, as long as it’s _you and me, together_ , raising kids, I’ll take that family any way I can get it.”

 

“You say that now, Pete, but—”

 

“And I’ll say it _forever_ , if I have to.” Peter held Wade’s gaze gravely. “You think you’re the only one dog-paddling in the deep-end, here? Baby,” a soft, snorted laugh. “Baby, I wouldn’t care if you were— _a gun for hire_ , I’d still wanna mate with you, claim you, bond with you, and marry you.”

 

“But I’m probably barren.” Wade shook his head. “Which is no more than I deserve, livin’ a life of lies. But _you_ , Petey? What good’s an omega who can’t even give you _children_?”

 

“What good’s an omega who gives me children but _doesn’t_ make me as happy, horny, exasperated, amazed, optimistic, joyful, irritated, and completely _insane_ , as _you_ do?” Peter’s smile turned hopeful and vulnerable. “What good is a mate who can’t stand toe-to-toe with me, like you can and do? What good is a mate that I don’t instinctively _trust_ and love so deeply that it would _scare_ me if I didn’t know—fucking _know_ —that he was _beyond_ worthy of that trust and love? Wade, honey . . . what good is a mate who isn’t _you_?”

 

“Peter. . . .”

 

“And as for what _you_ deserve, Wade . . . I don’t know what to say, don’t know just the right words to convince you that _you deserve to be happy_ , at last. But you _do_. And I know that _no one_ on this Earth is gonna make you as happy as _I’ll_ dedicate my life to making you. Not because some damn algorithm told me, and not because my _body_ is telling me. But because my heart . . . _my heart_ has been beating for you— _only_ for you—since the moment I laid eyes on you. I’d die for you, if called to. I’ll _live_ for you, if you’ll let me. I will spend _forever_ proving how worthy you are of the love and happiness you’ve been denied by a universe that’s more cruel and unjust to the deserving than I’d ever guessed. I’ll spend _eternity_ making up for its failings where your happiness is concerned. I’ll be your love, your safety, your companionship, your _family_. And I will never. _Ever_. Let you go.”

 

Wade sat through this speech wide-eyed, and when it was over, he blinked . . . and tears ran down his cheeks without any signs of stopping.

 

“Boy,” he said gruffly, sniffling and wiping his face. “For a guy who doesn’t know the right words, you sure batted that shit outta the _park_ , Petey!”

 

Peter smiled and kissed his cheek.

 

“And for the record: I take back my less-than-romantic proposal, Wade Wilson,” he said, hugging Wade even closer when the other man’s eyebrows shot up in consternation. “Only so, after our heats are over and we’re back in our right minds, I can take you to a _sinfully_ expensive restaurant and propose to you in front of the whole place. With a big-ass ring and all.”

 

Wade’s grin was slow and teasing. “Sounds pretty swell. Maybe swell enough to make a fella say _yes_.”

 

“You’d better,” Peter mock-growled, darting in to capture Wade’s mouth in a hard, happy kiss that lasted until they were prone on the sofa again and nearly falling off as they tried to get each other naked.

 

Finally, Peter huffed and sat up, staring down at Wade, whose shirt was half-off and whose dick was poking out of his boxers. His jeans were halfway down his thighs.

 

“Please tell me one of those doors leads to a bed,” Peter plead, nodding off to the right and past the small kitchenette. Wade nodded, dazed and burning up. Burning for Peter’s skin and touch. For the knot he’d first felt twelve hours—a veritable _lifetime_ —ago.

 

“The one to your right does.”

 

“Sounds like a plan, Stan.” Peter bounced to his feet and pulled a grumbling Wade to his, then into his arms, swaying them both for a bit before kissing Wade slow and deep. One hand cupped Wade’s face and the other slid down the back of Wade’s soaked boxers, past the now-useless napkin, working its way between his slick cheeks, to his dripping-wet entrance.

 

“Sorry I’m so, uh, damp,” Wade mumbled, blushing and embarrassed. “My body’s just _really_ on-board with this.”

 

“Sweetheart, don’t _ever_ apologize for being so wet and ready for me. For being ready to take my knot. I swear to you . . . you have _nothing_ to be sorry about.” Peter hummed, low and sexy, as he fingered Wade’s hole gently, slowly, and thoroughly. Till Wade was moaning and baring his throat again, up which Peter ran his tongue before sucking more hickeys into it. “You feel so _good_ , baby. And your _scent_ is just . . . the best thing ever.”

 

“Peter . . . Alpha, _please_. . . .” Wade begged and Peter exhaled a shuddering breath on his jugular before leaning back to look at Wade, his eyes dilated and wide and _ravenous_. Then he removed his index and middle fingers from Wade’s body, despite the clenching muscles and Wade’s murmured: _no_ s.

 

Peter smiled, lazy and smug, and brought his fingers up to his face, inhaling deeply, before licking them delicately . . . then sucking them into his mouth with a look of obscene relish that made Wade that much harder. Especially because Peter was holding his gaze so intently.

 

“You taste _so_ sweet . . . so _familiar_ . . . so . . . _mine_ ,” Peter murmured, after pulling his fingers out of his mouth with a slurp and a pop. Then he was claiming Wade's mouth again, sharing that sweetness and familiarity until, for the first time ever, Wade wasn’t embarrassed by his own scent and taste. He even found himself chasing down hints of that taste in Peter’s mouth as the Alpha somehow got them to Wade’s bedroom door without walking them both into a wall.

 

As they stumbled into Wade’s small, Spartan bedroom, Wade turned the dimmer switch up just enough to see by. A second later, the backs of his legs hit his stupid IKEA bed and he fell backward onto it, out of Peter’s arms. The Alpha stood over him, taking him in in a series of glances, and smiling such a promising and predatory smile, that Wade shivered.

 

Then Peter was swooping down to yank off Wade’s jeans, then—carefully—the soaked blue boxers. He stared at Wade’s dick for so long, Wade began to blush.

 

“I’m not cut,” he apologized, and Peter’s amused gaze flicked to his eyes.

 

“Neither am I,” Peter replied, reaching out to stroke up Wade’s dick with one teasing finger, before pushing down his foreskin to expose the flushed, weeping tip. He leaned down to lick it slowly, several times, flicking his tongue across the slit lightly. The only thing that kept a moaning, panting Wade from giving Peter one _monster_ of a facial was his body’s literal inability to come without an Alpha— _his Alpha_ —inside him.

 

“Petey. . . .” he whined.

 

“I know, sweetie, I know,” Peter breathed on Wade’s dick before straightening up and efficiently shucking his ugly-ass shirt and the grey wife-beater under it. His chest and abs were nicely defined, hairier than Wade’s—not _werewolf_ -hairy, but hairy enough to be interesting—with a dark trail of Heaven that lead down below the waistband of sin-red, silk boxers, which Peter’s quick, single-handed undoing of his fly revealed. He shoved off khakis and boxers simultaneously, without taking his eyes off Wade, whose eyes went saucer-wide at the sight of his Alpha’s dick standing out of its nest of dark, thick pubic hair.

 

“Some people might be intimidated by a cock that big,” Wade said in his most intrepid voice, even as he thought: _Holy shit, there’s no_ way _, even with a liter of slick pouring out of me every two minutes, that_ behemoth _is gonna fit in my ass._ “Me? I just take it as one of life’s not-so-little challenges and say: Bring it on!”

 

“Shut up, douche,” Peter said, chuckling as he knelt between Wade’s automatically spread legs, stroking his big, angry-red, knotting-rapidly-near-the-base dick. And Peter didn’t avoid the knot, but included it in his rough, tight stroking. Precome droozled from his slit nonstop.

 

Wade sat up and pushed his shirt the rest of the way off before catching Peter’s hand mid-stroke, and pulling it to his mouth. He met Peter’s eyes and proceeded to lick his palm, four fingers, and thumb clean, moaning softly at the strong, salty-musky-bitter taste that exploded across his tongue.

 

Peter watched him with a semi-dazed expression before cupping Wade’s face in both his hands and leaning down to kiss him languidly.

 

“God, I wanna make this beautiful for you,” Peter whispered, breathing hard once again. “We’ll never get another first time.”

 

“I don’t think it _could_ _be_ anything other than beautiful with you, Pete. However this goes—whatever happens . . . I’ll _never_ regret our first time together,” Wade promised, cupping Peter’s cheek in his left palm for a few moments. “Now. How do you want me, Alpha? On my back? On my stomach? On my side? Or . . . on my hands and knees?”

 

Peter moaned, stealing another kiss, sloppy, messy, and uncoordinated. It was possibly the best kiss of Wade’s life.

 

“Hands and knees, sweetheart,” Peter commanded, giving Wade’s dick a promising few strokes. Wade gasped and groaned.

 

“ _Yes_ , Alpha.” The affirmative was both breathless encouragement and unhesitating obedience.

 

Wade was barely able to get his shaking, anticipatory limbs to cooperate, but with Peter’s steady, sturdy assistance, soon Wade was positioned just the way they both wanted, strong arms bearing up under his weight, knees spread in the mattress, ass up in the air. He looked over his shoulder as Peter’s big, reverent hands settled on his cheeks, spreading them like a man opening a treasure chest. For a while, all he did was stare and lick his lips . . . and stare some more.

 

“ _Petey_ . . . _please_. . . .”

 

Smiling absently, Peter met Wade’s desperate gaze for a moment. “You’re so wet and open and . . . Jesus, Wade, I can _see you throbbing for me_. Do you know how _hot_ that is?”

 

“C’mon and _show_ me, Alpha . . . _show me_.”

 

Barely needing to be told once, Peter was already leaning forward to kiss the small of Wade’s back, then kitten-lick his way to Wade’s hole, with murmured praise about Wade’s readiness and sweetness.

 

Then . . . then his tongue was pushing past the initial ring of muscle—which was still fairly tight, despite Wade’s super-ready body—and unfurling in Wade’s body like a flower toward the sun. Wade cried out, helpless and broken, as Peter tasted and explored him, humming and _hmming_ in pleasure. It wasn’t long before Wade was non-verbal, just grunting and groaning and pushing back onto Peter’s tongue.

 

It wasn’t long after _that_ that Peter was withdrawing, rubbing and nuzzling his wet face on Wade’s right ass cheek before sitting up.

 

“Spread a little wider for me, sweetheart,” he panted, squeezing Wade’s cheeks possessively as he shuffled into a different, closer position. Wade, barely cognizant, managed to obey, his entire body shaking as Peter lined himself up, murmuring: “ _So_ good for me, Wade . . . so obedient . . . my sweet, submissive little omega. . . .”

 

Wade could only moan and try to relax as the tip of Peter’s dick, hot and flared, pressed against his hole . . . then pressed _in_.

 

After taking a quick, deep breath, Wade let it out slowly, his body automatically relaxing more on the exhale as Peter drove the tip in. They both gasped, Peter’s hands tightening on Wade, before he was pushing further in, in a slow, careful, steady thrust that drew a wavering groan from Wade’s already-raw throat.

 

When Peter was most of the way in, except for his knot, he pulled out again, just as slow and careful, then thrust once more, a bit faster and harder.

 

“Yes . . . yes, oh, Petey, _yes_ ,” Wade mumbled, his body on fire and crackling with electricity, Slick was running down his thighs, at this point, its sweet scent merging perfectly with Peter’s strongly musky and masculine one. It was all so perfect, so good, so _right_ , that Wade was _lost_ in it, rocking back to meet Peter’s increasingly hard and intense thrusts. He didn’t even realize it could get better till Peter swiveled his hips and hit Wade’s prostate at full ramming-speed, forcing a hoarse, loud, rasping cry from Wade’s throat. Then Wade was shuddering, his cock painting precome all over his abs as it bobbed and swung with his motions. With the way Peter rocked his body with each exertion.

 

Wade was, though he didn’t realize this, either, weeping from pleasure like he’d never known before—ecstasy that was so sharp and sweet, pure and perfect, it was _agony_.

 

Then Peter was spreading him wider, his thrusts slowing in speed, but gaining in power as he sought to go deeper, his knot pressing against Wade’s puffy, swollen entrance. Peter paused, breathing hard as he leaned down to tenderly kiss Wade in the spot where his claim-mark would—hopefully—go . . . Wade’s skin tingled yearningly in that spot even after the kiss.

 

“Please, Wade, sweetheart,” Peter murmured on Wade’s tingling skin, soft as a caress. “Be _mine_. Let me claim you now and forever. Let me be _your_ Alpha. Your _only_. Your mate and protector. Let me be _yours_.”

 

Wade nodded, turning his face toward Peter’s till the Alpha got the idea and kissed the corner of his mouth. His lips still tasted sweet, like Wade’s slick, and salty-anxious, too.

 

That simply would _not_ do.

 

“ _Of course,_ Petey. You’ve been my Alpha since the moment we met. There’ll never be _anyone_ else. _Never_. _Please_. . . .”

 

Peter smiled, reaching up to turn Wade’s face a little more toward his, for a full-on kiss, as he pushed against Wade’s guardian muscle. Then he forced his knot forward, capturing Wade’s lips again when simultaneous gasps tore their mouths apart. He swallowed Wade’s whimpering cry as the bulbous knot worked its way into him slowly, painfully. It hurt even more than the first and only time Wade had experienced it, with Nate last year. Only this time . . . it felt right. Felt necessary. Felt like _completion_.

 

And this time . . . Wade was _not_ scared.

 

“Oh, Wade, _baby_ ,” Peter moaned, sounding like he was weeping himself. Wade’s body was _really_ pouring out the slick, now, and with a final, brief cry from them both, Peter’s knot slid all the way in, his cock hilting in his omega’s body. “I never . . . I _never_. . . .”

 

“Me, neither,” Wade panted, when Peter couldn’t seem to finish that sentence, then he laughed raggedly. “Gimme a minute to relax, then . . . then fuck me like the big, bad breeder I know you are.”

 

“ _Fuck_ , baby.” Peter’s dick twitched in Wade’s body and his knot seemed to swell a little more. “This ain’t gonna be a marathon, you keep _that_ up. Gonna be more like a _sprint_.”

 

“Mmm . . . gonna cross my finish-line, Speedy? You’re so romantical, Petey.”

 

Peter laughed, wrapping one arm around Wade’s waist, the other settling with momentary tenderness on Wade’s hip before clamping down, hard and possessive. “Alright, enough from the peanut-gallery. Am I actually gonna get to come, tonight, or are you gonna keep practicing stand-up?”

 

In answer, Wade bore down on Peter’s dick as hard as he could, clenching until they both saw stars and Peter made a weird, high-pitched squawk.

 

“C’mon, Alpha,” Wade grunted, firming up his shaking arms and spaghetti-legs. “Put this omega-bitch in his place.”

 

“JESUS!” Peter exclaimed, pulling out so fast, Wade was pretty certain he tore a little, then Peter slammed back in, knot and all. Wade’s shaking limbs gave out on the third such thrust and he collapsed to the bed, Peter on top of him. The Alpha simply hauled Wade’s hips up and continued to take him with long, almost brutal strokes and harsh, breathless grunts until, writhing in the sheets from the sweetness of being filled and the not-so-sweet, but somehow complimentary pain of . . . _being filled_ , Wade arched up off the bed and his strung-out, pleasure-drenched body tensed as he came hard, with a loud, long yell.

 

“Baby . . . oh, God, _Wade_. . . .” Peter croaked out as Wade’s body locked-down on him like Fort Knox. Suddenly, the knot that’d been painfully big before, was so swollen inside Wade that there’d be no pulling out anytime soon without doing _serious_ damage. “I—I _can’t_ —”

 

But Peter never did get to say what he _couldn’t_ , because just as Wade’s seemingly infinite orgasm tapered down, Peter’s was finally starting as, with a rumbling grunt and hard, brief thrust, he hilted in Wade one last time and came . . . hot, thick, and a _lot_.

 

Aaaaaaaand . . . he _kept on coming_ , till Wade was trembling on the cusp of another orgasm, one that proved to be softer and more diffuse, more spread out through his body, but no less intense. And this one truly felt _infinite_.

 

But it wasn’t. Such things only give the illusion of being so. As the orgasm faded into powerful, then less powerful aftershocks, Wade became aware that he was lying on his side, Peter spooned up close behind him, holding him tight. Wade’s Alpha was still moving within him—what little movement his knot allowed, anyway—gasping and desperate to come again, even though his knot had gone down, somewhat. It was entirely likely that Peter would be hard for hours before his knot was reduced enough for him to safely pull out.

 

“That’s it, Petey,” Wade husked, his voice a thin and broken thing, but he used it, nonetheless, to help his Alpha along. As well as his tired, but already reflexively tight muscles. “Gonna breed me up good, huh? Gonna keep me barefoot and pregnant forever, right? Kids by the dozen? Till the greedy little shits eat us outta house and home?”

 

Peter came again, shooting hard and laughing as he did, clutching Wade to him tight, nuzzling that tingling spot between neck and collar before finally— _finally_ —biting down hard, breaking skin and anchoring in muscle. Worrying at the claim till Wade was coming for a third time, a few thin dribbles that burned and made his balls ache.

 

When the tremors and tingles and shakes had lessened, but not quite passed, Wade Wilson was, for the next while, _done_. This first, briefest round of his heat had passed and he was . . . for once, at peace. _At home_ in his skin.

 

And Peter . . . was _still_ worrying at the claim, which also burned and kinda hurt. Wade yawned, and though thoughts of Bacitracin and a _Hello Kitty_ Bandaid—or three—passed across his tired, barely-conscious mind, all he did was hum in contentment as his Alpha reinforced his mark.

 

A few minutes later, however, Peter left off the worrying with gentle licks and more nuzzles. Wade yawned again, heavy eyes slipping shut. He felt safe and secure and sated. _Good_.

 

“ _I love you, Wade_ ,” Peter gritted out as he filled Wade’s body with another ridiculous load of come—the predecessors of which were still stoppered in Wade’s body by Peter’s knot—and Wade smiled. Drifted into a weary half-sleep, despite the fact that his Alpha’s body was _far_ from done with his.

 

“I know, Peter.” Wade sighed, his hand coming up to settle on Peter’s, where it rested protectively on his abdomen. Wade squeezed that hand tight, then linked their fingers, even though he was momentarily sad and disappointed that in _this_ way, he’d failed and likely would _keep_ _failing_ his Alpha forever. “I love you, too.”

 

#

 

Two-plus feverish days later—days in which he spent most of his time on his knees, stomach, or side getting the common sense fucked out of him by his _extremely_ virile Alpha—Wade Wilson opened his tired eyes to late afternoon sunlight, crusty sheets, and the scents of sex and breakfast.

 

The former scent was just plain _tiring and groan-worthy_ after a nearly three-days fuck-fest, but the latter was interesting, indeed.

 

Wade rolled achily from his stomach, onto his side and found Peter sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing his dumb, more wrinkled than ever khakis and hideous paisley shirt, grinning and holding two large, greasy paper bags that smelled like Heaven.

 

Omelets, home fries, sausage, and . . . _yeah . . . Heaven_.

 

Wade sat up carefully and kissed Peter hard, with lots of tongue and no further intent. Peter returned the kiss slow and true. “Hiya, gorgeous,” he murmured before capturing Wade's lips again. Wade chuckled.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Where’s the coffee?” He broke the kiss to ask, taking one of the bags to root through. Then the other. Peter rolled his eyes and chuckled, too.

 

“Left the carrier on your kitchenette counter,” he replied with more than a little amusement. Wade snorted.

 

“Dude, if there’s one thing you need to know about me, goin’ into this bond and marriage, it’s that it’s always _coffee first_. _Always_ lead with the caffeine, Petey.” Wade tsked and met Peter’s dark eyes with a small smile. Peter returned it wryly.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind, sweetheart,” he said tenderly, reaching out to brush Wade’s messy, none-too-clean hair from his face. Then, with a quick kiss, he stood up. “I’ll be right back with plates, utensils, and the coffee.”

 

Wade watched him go, every ache, pain, and bruise in and on his thoroughly-used, come-soaked body combining to form an amazing aria of evidence that he was _not_ only wanted, not _only_ loved, but _mated_.

 

And his mate— _his Alpha!_ —had brought him _breakfast in bed. And coffee!_ What alternate universe had he tumbled _into_ three days ago?

 

{Don’t start overthinking this, motherfucker!} Yellow warned, grumbling its way to wakefulness with a psychic yawn. {Don’t mess it up with assumptions and bullshit baggage from Nate-fucking-Summers!}

 

 _I won’t,_ Wade promised, smiling a little. White also felt the need to chime in. [Be dutiful and obedient to our Alpha. He’s a rare one. A _sweet_ one. But _never_ take him for granted. There’s not another like him in the whole universe.]

 

 _Don’t I know it,_ was Wade’s reply as Peter returned with the promised items, refusing to give Wade a cup of necessary, life-giving coffee until Wade submitted to a few quick— _not_ so quick—affectionate, purposely slobbery kisses that left them both laughing. _Don’t I know it._

 

TBC


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end, in which we take a peek at Wade, Peter, and Co's near future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I know the word some of you might take issue with in this chapter. All I ask is that you keep an open mind, read the chapter, then read the end note. Preferably after you've finished the chapter, but if you can't wait, read it whenever.

“You awake, sexy?”

 

Wade Parker yawned at the soft croak kissed against his throat, one hand coming up to further muss Peter’s mussy, spiky bedhead. “Hmm . . . even if I wasn’t before,” he noted with sleepy good humor as Peter’s big hand slid up under his _Hello Kitty_ nightshirt. It went, as had been the habit for the past five months, to Wade’s abdomen first, settling like a benediction, before drifting down to take hold of Wade’s dick. “I am, _now_ , Doc.”

 

“Mmm, ‘s what I like to hear,” Peter murmured, nuzzling Wade’s Adam’s-apple as it bobbed. As Peter stroked and stroked his husband to full hardness before those clever, sure fingers drifted past Wade’s balls to his slightly slippery perineum and the slick, throbbing channel behind it.

 

Two of Peter’s fingers slid inside easily, but with just enough friction to make them both groan, Wade spreading his legs and drawing them up a bit. Peter chuckled and shifted around, till he was settled between Wade’s thighs, his thrusts becoming more powerful and methodical with better leverage. Breathless, panting, Wade squinted his eyes open in the watery dawn-light and, once they adjusted, found himself gazing up into _Peter’s_ dark, devouring eyes.

 

“Heyya, Petey,” he gasped fondly, smiling up at his husband. Peter smiled back, though his eyes were solemn and intense. _Hungry_.

 

“Hey, yourself, sweetheart.” His fingers moved a bit faster, a bit more forcefully, and soon Wade was arching up toward Peter, begging wordlessly for a third finger. Peter gave it to him with wide-eyed fascination that, as their marriage went on, never decreased. In fact, it seemed to increase.

 

Suffice it to say, their sex life, after nearly three years of wedded bliss, showed no signs of going stale.

 

“Kiss me, Doc,” Wade whispered desperately and Peter instantly complied, teasing Wade’s lips at first, before licking his way into Wade’s mouth, his tongue as insistent and dominant as his fingers. And when Peter finally deigned to brush Wade’s spot, he swallowed the resulting soft, needy noise Wade made high in his throat and hummed his approval at the way Wade’s body relaxed under and around him.

 

However, it was still some minutes later before Peter pulled away just enough to murmur: “Ready for me?”

 

“ _Always_ , Petey . . . always, _Alpha_. . . .”

 

And yet, _as always_ , it was a shock of the most insanely rapturous kind when Peter breached his body and proceeded to steadily take it over, driving himself home neither fast nor slow, just implacably, his cock seeming poised to split Wade in two at any moment. None of which stopped Wade from digging his blunt nails into Peter’s shoulder and bicep, and begging for more as Peter angled Wade’s right leg out and pinned his left hip.

 

When Peter had gone as deep as he would get in this position—as deep as he _dared_ , for the next four months, at least . . . despite the doctors' and Wade's reassurances, Peter was still afraid the sort of vigorous sex they usually engaged in could do some sort of irremissible harm—they both panted in the stillness and quiet of early Sunday morning. Even the birds weren’t singing yet and Wade . . . Wade was already pleasure-deep in his favorite past-time.

 

And _Peter_ was balls-deep in _Wade_.

 

“Love you, sweetheart,” Peter breathed, his voice hitching as he leaned his forehead down till it was touching Wade’s. “Love you _so much_.”

 

“Mmm . . . love _you_ , _too_ , Doc.” Wade bobbed up to steal a quick, teasing kiss that made Peter moan. Or maybe it was the way Wade bore down on the big cock filling him up so sweet and good. “Now _wreck_ me.”

 

And, as Wade’s hand left Peter’s shoulder to card his mussy, slightly-grown-out hair, that’s exactly what Peter did. Until well after the sun had truly risen.

 

#

 

By the time Wade emerged from the master bathroom, freshly-showered and drying his own overdue-for-barbering hair—it was past his shoulders, which was practically hippie-length, for a guy who used to sport buzz-cuts—Peter was sprawled on his back, probably in the huge wet-spot they’d made, snoring.

 

His dick was still half-hard, and bobbing as he occasionally twitched like he was chasing dream-rabbits.

 

Wade loved him _endlessly_. More and more, as each day passed.

 

For long minutes, he simply stood, naked and in love, and watching the object of his affections snore and drool a little, his eyes tracing the best bits—which was _all_ the bits, in Wade’s admittedly biased estimation—until he heard a soft, slightly petulant noise from across the hall.

 

Sighing—the obstetrician had emphasized, yet again, that as the pregnancy went on, his senses would grow more and more acute. More attuned to the sounds specific to his “nest”—Wade quickly pulled on pair of red-and-green plaid pajama bottoms—what Miles mumblingly called “Kwismis panse”—and a Maple Leafs jersey, just because he knew Petey’d have something snotty to say about that and Wade’s favorite team later.

 

Then, with one last glance back at his slumbering husband, Wade let himself out of their bedroom, gently pulling the door in behind him.

 

#

 

When Wade let himself into the bedroom across the hall, Miles—their second miracle—was still asleep in his Batman bed, his tiny, serious dark face smooth in its repose.

 

A glance at the crib—which was already getting too small for its occupant—however, showed that Benny, Peter and Wade’s _first_ miracle, was wide awake. And probably bored, considering that he’d thrown all his plushies but for the Green Lantern one, which matched his Green Lantern onesie—there was really no accounting for the kid’s horrible taste . . . Wade could only assume he got it from his father—which he was clutching as he sucked his thumb and made pathetic whimpering noises. His sable-brown hair was standing out in all directions even worse than Peter’s usually did.

 

“Aw, my poor B-B-B-Benny-and-the-Jets,” Wade crooned softly, entering the room quietly, going straight to his toddler who, with another whimper and still clutching Hal Jordan, held out his arms. Wade scooped Benny up, chuckling. Benny tucked his head under Wade’s chin with a satisfied sigh, accepting a kiss on the forehead with his usual magnanimous grace. “How long ya been awake, buddy? Hmm? Ya been bored while your big brother slept?”

 

“No!”

 

Wade rolled his eyes. At almost two years old, Benjamin Andrew Parker’s favorite word was “no.” His _first_ word, however, had been: “Myze! Myze!”

 

Which, as far as they could figure, was Benny-talk for: “Miles! Miles!”

 

It hadn’t been long after that before Peter and Wade’s then-four-years-old foster-son—Benny’s foster- _brother_ —had been well on his way to becoming their legally adopted son.

 

Now, almost a year later, Wade couldn’t remember what it was like to _not_ have a Miles-shaped space in the middle of his home and heart. And he knew Peter couldn’t either. To say nothing of their loving, open-hearted Benny.

 

As he bounced his son comfortingly on his hip, pacing around the room unhurriedly, picking up toys—mostly Benny’s thrown plushies and blocks, since Miles was almost supernaturally neat for a five-years-old—Wade quietly mumbled to Benny. “Why ya gotta be such a little pig, huh, Benny-penny? Hmm? Gonna be just like your Daddy? Always misplacin’ stuff and havin’ to ask me where it went?”

 

“No!” Benny crowed, waving Hal Jordan.

 

“ _Shhh_ , Baby Boy . . . you’ll wake your brother. _Unh_ ,” Wade sighed, dropping the last block into Benny’s toy-chest then putting the free hand on his abdomen as strong, insistent impacts from the inside met his gentle, testing touch. Their _third_ little miracle, making herself heard. “You already woke your sister, it seems.”

 

“No!”

 

“Yes, you _did_ , Mister. With your big mouth.” Wade kissed Benny’s crown again, only to get hit in the face with Hal. “Ya little monster. You an’ your Daddy are lucky I find you two so adorable. Or else I’d tie ya both up in a sack and drop you off at that _Good Will_ Aunties MJ and Gwen like so much.”

 

“Emay! Emay! Wen!” Benny said excitedly, sitting up so fast he nearly busted Wade’s jaw. Wade rolled his eyes and got a better hold on the wriggling boy, who apparently was not over his fascination with his favorite aunts. Wade was, to Peter’s and MJ’s dismay, and Gwennie’s everlasting amusement, fond of saying that Benny was a born pussy-hound. And Heaven knew he’d been charming women since the moment he was born. The female nurses and doctors, especially the omegas, had been ridiculously in love with Wade and Peter’s first-born. Almost disturbingly so.

 

Thankfully, Benny’s little sister, at least, didn’t seem impressed by his shit. She had a tendency to kick almost furiously when Wade held the toddler for longer than a few minutes.

 

So, for that few minutes, Wade stood by the window, with its rainbow blinds, which cast colorful shadows throughout the room, peering out at their Elmhurst neighborhood as it got its slow, Sunday start.

 

Then, of course, Benny had to complain.

 

“Hungee, Mama!” He pouted up at Wade with his father’s big, dark eyes and angelic mouth, and Wade sighed once more. Just then, the baby started kicking again, too.

 

“Yeah. You ain’t the only one, Benny-my-love. I guess it’s brekkies-time, huh?”

 

“Bekkie! Nana!”

 

“You _can’t_ just have bananas for breakfast every day, honey-bunny.”

 

“No! No! Nanas!”

 

“Ugh.” Wade rolled his eyes and Benny laughed, sensing a victory. “Fine, but you’re gonna have some Cheerios and apple slices, too, Mister Man.”

 

“Yes!”

 

Wade blinked. “Did you just say _yes_ for the first time?” he asked his son incredulously. Benny seemed to give it some thought before winding up and letting out a big: “NO!”

 

“ _Shush_! You’ll wake your brother, kiddo.” Wade glanced at Miles who was, indeed, stirring silently, then back at his entirely-too-pleased toddler. “Too late. Well, boyo, let’s give him a good morning-hug and kiss, and keep this _yes_ -business between me and thee, hmm? It’ll break your poor father’s heart if he doesn’t manage to get your, ahem, _first yes_ on video.”

 

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Benny exclaimed, giggling wildly, which seemed to make his sister’s agitated kicking increase. Wade rolled his eyes yet again.

 

“You’re _so_ not a team-player, Ben Parker,” he told the child in his arms as he gently, but with great relief, sat on the edge of Miles’s bed and waited for the older boy to open his eyes.

 

#

 

Wade was just sliding scrambled eggs onto Peter’s plate, which already boasted bacon and Wade’s famous French toast, when Peter’s arms slid around his waist and the man, himself, pressed a gentle kiss behind Wade’s ear.

 

“Mornin’, love,” he murmured, one hand sliding down to Wade’s left hip even as the other settled on Wade’s rounded abdomen. For a moment, Peter pressed his boxer-and-bathrobe-covered groin against Wade’s ass, chuckling when Wade did.

 

“Are you ever _not_ hard, Dr. Parker?” Wade whispered under his breath.

 

“Not when _you’re_ around, Bootylicious.” Peter nibbled Wade’s earlobe then, with a regretful sigh, put some space between them. Not much, though, and his hand lingered on Wade’s abdomen for a few extra moments. “How’s Evan doing, this morning?”

 

“ _Eleanor’s_ doing fine,” Wade said pointedly, elbowing his husband in the side as he made some room for Peter to sit. In the high-chair next to him— _Peter’s_ old high-chair—Benny flailed a happy welcome, giggling and shrieking when Peter kissed his cheek, then pretended to nom on his fingers. Then Peter was solemnly holding out his hand to Miles, palm up. Miles, as always, considered the hand gravely for a moment before slapping his father five.

 

“That’s my Big Man!” Peter said proudly and fondly, grinning at Miles, who aimed his shy smile back at Peter before picking up a piece of bacon and chewing on it.

 

Wade served himself and sat at the table, first taking a sip of his decaf—he knew it did nothing, but he could pretend, couldn’t he? Till Ellie was born—with its payload of creamy, sugar-y goodness.

 

The first half of breakfast was a mostly silent affair, as usual, but for Benny’s occasional, muttered “no”s. Peter played footsie with Wade, with one hand inching slowly up Wade’s right thigh. Wade blushed and wouldn’t stop smiling, and Peter’s own lips were twitching as he sipped his orange juice. Finally, Miles noticed and gave his parents a suspicious and stern little-boy- _look_ , causing the two—supposed—adults to clear their throats, and keep their hands and feet to themselves.

 

“You sure you still wanna come with me to the ultra-sound, tomorrow morning?” Wade asked as Peter nibbled on his crust-less French toast—really, he was _such_ a child-man, and Wade was simply his crust-eliminating enabler—which, unlike Wade’s, wasn’t drowned in maple syrup.

 

“Of course, sweetheart!” Peter gave Wade a stern look of his own. “What kinda husband and father would I be to miss _that_?”

 

“One who’s been there for all the _other_ ultra-sounds and won’t see anything new or special this time—especially since he’s being a jerk about us finding out the sex for sure,” Wade added, returning Peter’s look with a very pointed one of his own. Peter smirked, almost smugly.

 

“C’mon, we agreed we wanted to be surprised, since we already knew beforehand with Ben-Ben and Miles. Besides, I’m pretty sure _Evan Kurt Parker’s_ gonna be a boy. I don’t need a sonogram to tell me what I already know, Wade.” Peter dug into his eggs again after shaking more salt on them. (Honestly, Wade could foresee chronic high blood pressure in his husband’s not-too-distant future. Wade was going to have to crack down on this salt-on-everything-including-toothpaste habit before too long.)

 

“ _I’m_ the one carrying your spawn, Peter Parker. And _I say_ , this one’s _definitely_ a girl. And May agrees with me, too. Says she can tell from the way I’m carrying _Eleanor May Parker_ that she’s a girl. And since your Aunt’s a _nurse_ , I think I tend to agree with her.”

 

“But _I’m_ a _doctor_ ,” Peter grumbled, only for Wade to snort wryly, which earned him a gentle pinch on the knee from Peter. Wade laughed. “So, who’re we leaving Ben with, tomorrow? Mrs. Saito’s got that, uh, family-thing in Paramus till Wednesday, right?”

 

“Yeah. _All_ her grandkids, too. Clan Saito’s bearing down on Jersey like a super-storm. Heh. But it’s cool. Weas said he’d look after Benny tomorrow for as long as needed.”

 

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

 

“Eh.” Wade shrugged. “Between Anna teething and the triplets getting into everywhere not fenced off with barbed wire, Weas is just . . . so freakin’ _done_. He’s just, like, ‘whatever, what’s one more kid?’”

 

“Damn.” Peter frowned. “Where’s Bob during all the mayhem? Wasn’t he proud, doting daddy just a couple months ago?”

 

“Still is, but since he left H.Y.D.R.A. and struck out on his own, he’s in neck-deep and just trying to keep the business afloat.” Wade sighed worriedly and Peter patted his hand with gentle reassurance.

 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. If anyone can make _Demski Trading_ , _LLC_ , take-off, it’s Bob. Guy’s crazy-good with numbers, stocks, and futures. _We’ve_ never regretted investing with him, that’s for sure.” Peter smiled until Wade returned it hopefully. Then Peter leaned in for a not-so-quick kiss that ended when Benny threw a handful of Cheerios at them and Miles laughed his quiet, rusty little chuckle. Despite the Cheerios in his hair, that sound, so shy and underused, even after so long of Miles being a Parker, warmed Wade’s heart. He reached out and brushed tender fingers across Miles’s cheek and the boy smiled. . . .

 

“ _Young man_! Throwing Cheerios at your Mama and I? Really?” Peter exclaimed with mock-offense and a mock-glare at Benny that made the toddler cackle and crow: “Dada! Dada!”

 

Those cackles only increased when Peter leaned over and covered the boy’s sticky, banana-smeared face in kisses, succeeding in transferring half the mess to his own unshaven face.

 

Wade and Miles shared an unimpressed look: two feline-neat people stuck in a house with two canine-messy doofs.

 

Then Miles quirked a cheeky little grin, wry and old-souled, and Wade chuckled, too.

 

“Okay, Big Man, since you’re all done—cleaned your plate, an’ _everything_ , good goin’!—wanna practice your exercises?” he asked. Miles made an iffy face, but eventually nodded, fist-bumping Wade when he held his fist out. Then he automatically walked Wade through the first of his six thrice-daily exercises to help correct his [rhotacism](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rhotacism_\(speech_impediment\)).

 

And even though Miles was still shy when it came to talking, he’d improved markedly in the past year, thanks largely to Wade’s—and Dr. Ronald Kershaw's—help. And as long as Wade had a say, that improvement would continue.

 

“A’right! You’re on fire, this mornin’, champ! But remember: keep that tongue straight, right? Like an arrow! Okay, let’s go!” Wade encouraged mid-exercises and Miles nodded, a look of concentration on his small, solemn face.

 

The exercises were almost over, and Wade’s breakfast and coffee had cooled when Peter leaned in to nuzzle his cheek. “Oh, the things that miraculous tongue is capable of, Mr. Parker. . . .”

 

Wade’s snort didn’t even interrupt his exercises with Miles. But he did see Peter’s smile out of the corner of his eye. When Wade and Miles were done, Peter leaned in again.

 

“Seriously, you’re so _good_ at this, babe,” he whispered. “You really _should_ talk to Dr. Kershaw about his offer to get you into his _alma mater_ for juvenile speech pathology. You’ve got a real _gift_ for it and kids _love_ you. Hell, _everyone_ loves you.”

 

“Good man!” Wade enthused, slapping Miles a gentle five when the boy held out his hand, looking proud of himself. Then Wade glanced at his husband, blushing. “Doc, I barely have my G.E.D. The ink’s still wet on the diploma!”

 

“Yeah, but look how _awesome_ you did on it! Top one percent!” Peter said proudly, just a bit puffed-up in his pride. Wade rolled his eyes again. His _own_ bad habit. “You aced the fucking _shit_ outta—uh, I mean, you really passed with flying colors,” Peter finished lamely, glancing at Miles, whose eyebrows were raised disapprovingly. Benny, meanwhile, was happily saying: “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

 

Wade and Peter winced and shrugged at each other. It was bound to happen, sooner or later. The only surprise was that it wasn’t _Wade_ who’d kicked it off.

 

“Anyway,” Peter sighed. “I still think you should give it a go.”

 

“Peter . . . we’re not all as smart as you. College ain’t for everyone, y’know?” Wade all but apologized.

 

“Maybe. And _maybe_ the people who think that are just a touch insecure about how intelligent and focused and _talented_ they are, even though their calling is clear to the entire world.” Peter batted his eyes at Wade who remained unamused. Smiling his most charming, smooth smile, Peter leaned in for a third time. “Besides: how _sexy_ would it be if my husband— _my husband_ —was a _brilliant, renowned_ doctor?”

 

“Gee . . . _I_ wouldn’t know how it _feels_ to have a sexy, _brilliant, renowned_ doctor for a husband, Petey. . . .”

 

“I _will_ pinch you again, Mr. Parker.”

 

“And _I’ll_ cry spousal abuse, _Dr._ Parker.”

 

Grinning at each other, despite the seeming impasse, they turned back to their breakfasts while Miles tried to teach a fractious and clearly uninterested Benny one of the speech exercises he’d just done so well. Wade found himself wondering. Then imagining. Then . . . crumbling.

 

“Well . . . we’ll see after Ellie-May is born,” he finally gave-in shyly, then smiled when Peter’s hand covered his own. Then he was pulling his hand out from under his husband’s to quickly snatch away the shaker before Peter could add any more salt to his white-dusted eggs.

 

The, ahem, grown-ass doctor pouted until Wade leaned in to kiss that pout away, awash in the tastes of bananas and Cheerios, and French toast and O.J. Peter hummed happily, cupping Wade’s face in his big, gentle, loving hands and, as usual, taking any opportunity to slip his husband the tongue, however inappropriate.

 

Inappropriate, thorough, and escalating PDAs were kind of Peter’s M.O., and Wade wouldn’t change that for the world.

 

“Evan-Kurt’s gonna be so proud of you, honey . . . just like the rest of us are,” Peter murmured a tad breathlessly on Wade’s lips. “At least . . . we’re proud of you when you’re _not_ wearing that Maple Leafs jersey like an advertisement for loser-y ineptitude.”

 

Aaaaaaaaand there went the snotty mockery, as predicted. Wade rolled his eyes and smirked. “ _This_ from a guy who roots for the freakin’ _Islanders_? C’mon, Petey! You’re just mad ‘cause my team is awesome and wins so much.”

 

“If by _mad_ you mean laughing, _awesome_ you mean not, and _wins so much_ , you mean loses-like-they-get-paid-to-tank-matches, then yes,” Peter’s dark, straight brows lifted and his expression grew haughty, but amused. “I’m simply frothing at the mouth with rage, dearest.”

 

“You’re _such_ a dick,” Wade whispered, fighting off a laugh as Peter darted in to nibble a line down his neck, one hand settling with tender affection and fierce protectiveness on Wade’s abdomen.

 

“Hey—watch that salty language around our son’s innocent ears, wouldja? We already corrupted Miles and Ben.”

 

“Shit!” Benny contributed brightly.

 

Wade snorted, tilting his head back just slightly: submissiveness without agreeing to start any Sex-lympics anytime soon. After all, they still had to visit May, then MJ and Gwen, not to mention get Miles, Ben, and themselves _ready_ for those visits. Sundays as days of _rest_ was _bullshit_ , as far as Wade was concerned. “Our _daughter’s_ ears’ll be fine, butch. She’s a tough cookie, but still dainty and sweet. Like her Mama.”

 

“Mmm . . . can’t argue with _that_. At least not with the spot-on assessment of your character, gorgeous,” Peter whispered, nuzzling his way up to Wade’s jaw, then kissing his way to Wade’s waiting lips.

 

Then they were snickering and kissing again— _laughing and_ _making-out_ as Miles made retching noises, and Benny chucked more Cheerios at them, singing: “Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit! Mama-shit! Dada-shit! Myze-shit! Benny-shit! Shit-shit!”

 

Wade’s right hand settled over Peter’s, where it rested on his abdomen. And Wade’s left hand slid up Peter’s chest to settle on his shoulder, before he finally wrapped his arm around Peter’s neck and yanked-choked his startled, still-chuckling husband forward and closer, teasing and playfully manipulating Peter’s sure, possessive-dominant tongue.

 

For a little while, anyway, they quite lost track of their surroundings.

 

“ _Gwoss_ ,” Miles finally said poutily.

 

“Gwoss-shit!” Benny agreed cheerfully, throwing another handful of Cheerios up in the air like tasty confetti.

 

Evan-Eleanor kicked and squirmed impatiently under their parents’ gentle hands.

 

And said parents, for once, paid their three children no mind whatsoever. After all, Wade and Peter had made-out for _far_ longer under even _less-sexy_ circumstances. _This_ Sunday morning, though special in its own way, was nothing new.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: _Mama_ , in this 'verse, is the person who acts as the mothering parent. And Mother/to mother is most definitely a verb. The ultimate action-word. Wade doesn't mind and encourages, as do most _traditional_ omega parents in this 'verse, his children to call him _Mama_ /Mommy/Mother because he is, in the reproduction-sense and the parental role, their Mother. Their Mama. He bore them, gave birth to them, and has all the instincts regarding them that a female parent would in this 'verse and any other. He is, in all ways, _Mama_. It neither compromises nor threatens his own masculinity nor affects the way Peter sees him. Or society, for that matter.
> 
> [Mama (noun)](http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/mama)  
>  Scroll down to third definition: [Mother (transitive verb)](http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/mother)
> 
> And that's it. End of world-building :-)
> 
> Questions? Comments? Concerns? Feedback? You know where to click. And THANK YOU ALL for reading. See ya in comments, which I'm _at last_ gonna answer.

**Author's Note:**

> How'd I do?
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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